


You Can Sing Me Anything

by Chash



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: F/M, Random & Short, Tumblr Prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-21
Updated: 2015-11-14
Packaged: 2018-03-31 15:39:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 58
Words: 68,295
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3983572
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chash/pseuds/Chash
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I have seen people doing posts where they just collect short Tumblr fills, so I am doing one of those. I have no idea how many of those I will have, but I guess we will find out?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 4. “Do you…well…I mean…I could give you a massage?”

**Author's Note:**

> If you want to find me on tumblr for some reason, I'm [ponyregrets](http://ponyregrets.tumblr.com/).

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bellamy is not a runner. AU.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompted by galacticdrift on Tumblr!

“That was one of my worse choices,” Bellamy says. He’s face down on Clarke’s couch in clear misery; Clarke’s reading, but she reaches over to pet him a little. She misses his hair and gets her finger up his nose a little, but he deserves it.

“What, deciding to run a 5K without any preparation or training because you’re threatened by your sister’s boyfriend didn’t go well? No way.”

Bellamy turns his head just enough to glare at her. “When I can move in three weeks, I’m going to kick your ass.”

“I know how long the 5K took you, you’re not going to be hard to outrun. And you’re giving me a really generous head start.”

He attempts to roll over. Well, she thinks that’s what he’s doing; it’s hard to tell, given how pathetic he is. On the other hand, he’s really sweaty, and that’s a good look on him. If he’s going to die on his couch, it’s at least considerate of him to be eye candy.

“How’s Lincoln doing?” she asks.

He glares harder. “He and Octavia are on a cool-down fun run.”

“And you didn’t tag along to glare and be weird?”

“I think I probably would have actually died.”

Clarke laughs, putting her book down and stretching. “Okay, I’m actually proud of you for that. Way to finally be mature and learn your limits. So do you–” she starts, and then feels weird. Bellamy’s one of her best friends, and she’d do this for any of them without hesitation, but Bellamy’s the only one she’s kind of in love with. Then again, that’s just weird for her, not him. And he does look pretty miserable. “Uh, yeah. I could give you a massage?”

He makes a noise that will feature prominently in her fantasies for the rest of her life. “Seriously? I will love you forever.”

“You already love me forever. Can you get your shirt off?”

“Yes,” he says, stubborn. He sort of flops a bit, and then swears. “Why do my arms even hurt? I don’t run with my arms. Can you just cut it off?”

“Are you seriously asking me to cut your shirt off because you can’t use your arms?”

“It’s not like it’s a nice shirt. And it’s all sweaty now.”

Clarke finds her scissors and straddles his ass. “I will seriously do this. Last chance to say you’re joking. I quit medical school before I got to cut anyone’s clothes off.”

“I wouldn’t want to deprive you of a life-long dream,” he says. “Go for it.”

She starts the cut with the scissors, and then rips it the rest of the way, because how many chances is she going to have to literally rip a guy’s shirt off? These are the kinds of opportunities she needs to take advantage of.

“Thanks, reverse-Hulk,” he says, dry, and then moans again when her fingers dig into his back. “Holy shit, yes.”

“Please promise me you’ll never do this again,” she says, digging her hands into his shoulders. “Lincoln is nice, you don’t need to have these weird manhood contests with you. It’s okay that his penis is bigger than yours.”

“You don’t know that,” he mutters.

“Sadly no.”

He snorts. “You know if you want to check my dick size, all you have to do is ask. Any time.”

“I would be genuinely impressed if you could roll over and get your pants off right now. Like, seriously. Life accomplishment.”

“Okay, so in three weeks, when I can move, all you have to do is ask.” He pauses. “I could probably roll over in like two, so if you want to be on top, that could happen sooner.”

She snorts, glad he can’t see her face, and refocuses her attention on his back. Which is not that much better to think about, really. “Get there in one and I’ll think about it.”

He makes a noise like he is putting supreme effort into something, and pushes off the couch to roll himself over; Clarke scrambles up enough to let him move, and then he’s grinning up at her, shirtless and flushed. He tugs her back down into his lap, and apparently he really likes massages. A lot.

“Seriously, you’re going to have to do all the work,” he says, although he does manage to pull her in for a kiss. It might take the last of his strength.

“I can do all the work,” she murmurs, smiling against his mouth. “Do I get to cut your shorts off too?”

He laughs. “I didn’t like them anyway.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I debated changing this from a 5K because 5Ks are not actually very long and Bellamy's probably in pretty good shape, but we're sticking with it. If this bothers you, assume that he lifts weights and does pull-ups a lot, but never runs because he finds it boring, and therefore used a lot of muscles he doesn't ordinarily use. He thought he'd be fine too, but he was WRONG. I did not overthink this at all.


	2. 17. “Looks like we’ll be trapped for a while…”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bellamy gets caught in a snowstorm. Non-AU, post season two.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompted by cupcakecutlass on Tumblr!

The snowstorm comes out of nowhere, at least as far as Bellamy’s concerned. Someone who paid more attention in Earth Skills than he did might have seen it coming, but he’s no good at weather patterns, so he’s far from camp when the snow starts coming thick and heavy. It’s all he can do to find shelter, some old bunker mostly hidden under a hill. Not a bad place to spend a few hours; he’s escaped into worse.

He gets the door closed and the snow shaken out of his hair before he sees Clarke.

He hasn’t seen her for months, not since Mount Weather. Her hair is shorter, and she’s thinner. She’s staring at him like she can’t believe he’s real either, like he’s the one who left her. Like he’s the one who didn’t want to be found.

“It’s snowing,” he says, which is about the dumbest thing he possibly could have said. “Hard. I can’t–” He rubs the back of his neck. “Looks like we’re gonna be stuck in here for a while.”

She’s still staring at him, and he’s about to say something else to fill the silence, anything to keep from having to just look at her, when she moves, launching herself into his arms so fast and sudden that he staggers back against the door.

“Bellamy,” she says, fierce, and he clings back to her. Part of him, the part that’s still raw from her leaving, wants to point out she knew where he was, if she wanted to see him this much. The rest of him just doesn’t want to ever let go.

“Hey,” he says, burying his nose in her hair. She smells different, without the soap they’ve been using at camp, but there’s something under it, he thinks, something he can identify. She’s still Clarke.

“Hi,” she says, and doesn’t seem inclined to say anything else. She seems happy to just stay in his arms, nose buried against his neck.

He’s afraid of what he’ll do if he doesn’t say anything. “I didn’t think you’d be this close.”

“I was worried. I wanted to be here if you needed me.”

“I need you,” he says, instant, because if that’s all he has to say to get her back, he’ll say it. He’ll do anything to make her believe it.

She makes a choked sound, like a laugh. She still hasn’t let go of him, and that’s nice. “I meant for a catastrophe, more Grounders or Mountain Men, not for–”

“Me,” he says.

She does look up at that, right into his eyes, and that’s more than he quite knows how to handle. Maybe he should just go outside and die in the snow. It might be better than having to look at Clarke Griffin right now.

But then she smiles a little, hesitant, like she doesn’t remember how, and says, “Oh, duh,” and kisses him.

When they come up for air, she says, “I thought you meant you needed me to help out around camp, not for you.”

“I need you for that too,” he says, but he’s kissing her again, and she doesn’t answer.

But when the snow stops, she goes with him.


	3. 30. “It’s not what it looks like…”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bellamy works at a museum, Clarke is a regular. AU.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompted by bgonemydear on tumblr!

“It’s not what it looks like.”

Clarke raises her eyebrows. She’s his favorite of the museum regulars, an art student who comes in once or twice a week to do sketches. Ideally, he would only see her when he was looking cool and attractive, but here he is. “It looks like someone painted your face so you’re a unicorn princess,” she says.

“Okay, so it’s what it looks like, but you’re not allowed to judge me.”

“I never said I was judging.” She pokes his cheek. “That’s actually a really good paint job. Who did it?”

“My little sister.”

She sits down next to him. “Is she six and really talented or an adult who likes unicorns?”

“She’s an adult who likes embarrassing me. The kid we had coming in to paint faces called in sick, so I had to recruit her at the last minute. She said she needed to practice first. I was desperate.”

“You look very regal. I like the sparkles.”

“I bet Octavia could do you too. If you’re jealous.”

She laughs. “I’m already a princess, thanks.” She glances around. “I didn’t realize you had a special event today. I was hoping it would be quiet and I could just sketch, but instead it’s–what is this?”

“New summer program. First Family Fridays. Apparently we have a reputation for being kind of stuffy, so we’re trying to attract more young people.”

“You know, calling them young people makes you sound way stuffier. Like you want them off your lawn.”

He crosses his arms. “Well, I kind of do.” He glances at his phone. “But instead, I’m doing a mythology tour, so if you’ll excuse me–”

“Wait, no, I want to go on the mythology tour!” she says, grinning. “It sounds awesome. Are you going to work your whole unicorn princess thing into the tour? Do you have unicorn myths? I can google unicorn myths. I’m here to help.”

“We’re doing a scavenger hunt to find mythological characters and creatures around the museum. Unicorn is on the list,” he admits. 

“Awesome,” says Clarke. “So, where do I go for the tour?”

“It’s recommended for families with children under ten,” he says, amused.

“Are you telling me I’m not allowed to go on your tour, Bellamy?”

“Be my guest,” he says, and it’s really pretty great, her following him around, watching the kids run around looking for everything on his list while she smugly tells him she already got them all.

“It’s like you’re smarter than a fifth grader,” he tells her.

“Most of these are first graders. The fifth graders would probably smoke me.”

After, she makes him take her to the face-painting booth, so she meets Octavia (who gives him a horribly knowing look) and gets her face painted like a tiger.

“Very intimidating,” he teases.

“Thanks. So is this happening again next week? Should I stop coming on Fridays?”

“Just the first Friday of the month. So next week is safe, but in the long-term, yeah, you might want to switch to another day.”

“Well, I figured Friday is date night, you know?” she says, not looking at him. “So if you asked me out, we could just go after you finished work.”

He wets his lips. “Oh. Yeah. I guess you’re right. So, uh, do you want to go out with me after I finish work tonight?”

She laughs. “Only if you leave the face paint on.”

He does, and she kisses him as soon as she sees him, so it’s definitely worth it.


	4. 19. “The paint’s supposed to go where?”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bellamy might not have read this craigslist ad asking for a model thoroughly enough.

"Do you not read the ads you're responding to?" the artist asks. She's giving him a singularly unimpressed look, which Bellamy has to admit is fair. He'd probably be annoyed in her place too.

"Of course I read it," he says, petulant. "I just didn't remember all of the details." He has to admit, not noticing that she's painting on _him_ is a pretty major oversight. She's not wrong to be annoyed with him.

"So, you're not going to do it?" she asks, crossing her arms, a challenge, and Bellamy is pretty incapable of backing down from a challenge. "Because I have to try to find someone else if you won't."

"No, I will," he says. "You just surprised me."

"Because you _can't read_ ," she grumbles. "Strip."

"How much should I be taking off?" he asks.

She tosses him a couple packs of black Hanes briefs. "Everything. I'll need to paint those too, so I hope one of my pairs fits you, or I'll just be painting right on your dick."

"You're going to paint my dick?" he asks.

"Again, things that were covered in the posting. That you responded to." She sounds sort of amused about it now, which Bellamy takes as a good sign. 

"So, can I at least get your name?" he asks, tugging off his shirt. If she likes what she sees, she shows no sign, which he guesses is professional of her, but he always kind of prefers when the artists check him out. It's good for his ego. "I have to be on a first-name basis with people before I get naked with them."

"Clarke," she says. "And you're Bellamy, right?"

"Yeah." He tugs off his jeans. "Are you planning to watch me this whole time?"

"I don't have to," she says, turning around to fiddle with a camera. "I didn't think you'd be shy."

"I have hidden depths," he says. He pulls off his boxers and switches them for a pair of her briefs. They're kind of stiff and more revealing that his boxers, but it's not like he has anything to be ashamed of in that department. He's been naked in front of entire art classes, this is nothing. And he's got a pretty nice bulge going, if he does say so himself. "Okay, done."

She turns back, and now she does give him a once-over, but it's not really sexual. He feels like he's under a microscope. Finally, she meets his eyes again and gives him a professional smile. "Great. So, the basic idea is that I'm painting you into this backdrop," she says, leading him over to a large canvas. It's black, covered in stars and nebulae, planets and galaxies. He'd wonder how he missed it when he came in, but he was kind of distracted by her telling him to strip so she could get the paint on him.

"Okay," he says, nodding.

"So, you're going to be right up against it here, with your hands pressed flat against the canvas, like you're pushing yourself off it." She positions him as she talks, getting his stance right, and this part is familiar. He started posing for figure drawing classes when he was in college, found he didn't mind sitting still for a while and kind of liked being the center of attention. The appreciative stares and occasional hookups weren't bad either, and he'd kept on doing it on the side, through craigslist or coffee shop postings, after he graduated. He's used to all of this, except for the part where he's the canvas. "Is that comfortable?" Clarke asks, when she's done. "Can you stay like this for a few hours?"

"Yeah, no problem."

She nods. "Cool." she grabs her paintbrush and kneels down. "I'm going to start with your feet and work my way up. You might get kind of turned on, don't worry about it. It's a normal physiological reaction. I'll work around it."

He was doing his best to be as calm and professional as she is, but he can't help a choked laugh at that. "Work around it?"

"Seriously, it's fine," she says, and starts painting before he can say anything else.

Usually, when Bellamy's posing, he can kind of zone out, think about his grocery list or emails he needs to send or whatever, but it's impossible when she's painting _him_. He's kind of ticklish, so first he has to concentrate hard on not laughing or squirming, and then he finds the movement of the brush too distracting to think about much of anything else. Not a turn on, really, just distracting.

"I'm doing the base coat first," she says, like she knows he needs help relaxing. "Basic black up to your pecks, and then some kind of jagged edging for the transition, like you're breaking off the canvas. I'm hoping it'll look cool, and not just hokey. Once the base is down, I'll go in for some detail work, stars and other stuff, to match the background, and then take some pictures."

"Do you do this a lot?" he asks.

"Which part?"

"Painting people?"

"I've only been doing it for about six months, but I like it," she says. "I did more sketching in college, but--" She flashes him a grin. "My ex-girlfriend bought chocolate body paint this one time, and I got distracted making cool patterns and landscapes on her instead of doing anything sexy."

He smiles. "Please tell me that's not why she broke up with you."

"No, she thought that was cute. She broke up with me because she couldn't deal with dating a bi girl, blah blah insecurities, heteronormativity, experimenting, can't have children, you'll leave me for something with a penis. Dumb stuff like that."

"Wow, that is dumb."

She laughs. "I know, right? But the body paint was what got me interested in this. I like doing photography, and I like including people in my work. It's been fun so far."

She's up to his thighs with the paint now, and it doesn't feel like it should be sexy, but he's always been kind of sensitive there, and the feel of the brush is just enough to be kind of maddening.

"Please don't try to fight the erection," Clarke says dryly. "You'll just make it worse."

"Thanks for your feedback," he mutters.

"Anytime."

"Why do you even have to paint the underwear?" he asks. "It's already black."

"It's a different shade of black. It has to match. Which one of us is the artist here?"

"I'm just not psyched for a paintbrush on my dick."

"If only someone had warned you there would be a paintbrush on your dick. Like, I don't know, the craigslist ad. Oh, wait."

"God, you're never going to let me live that down, are you?" 

"Nope, never."

They chat pretty easily after that, even though he's kind of hard and she's painting him. He tells her about his sister and his odd jobs; she tells him about her estrangement from her parents after, as she puts it, "a whole lot of shit," and the odd jobs she works to get by herself. He finds he's even kind of enjoying it, honestly; the motion of the brush is kind of soothing, and he likes the sound of Clarke's voice, her easy laugh, her smile now that she's relaxed.

"Okay, there we go," she says, finishing off the swirl of a galaxy on his chest. "All set. Now I just need to take a few pictures and you'll be good to go."

"Are you going to let me shower first?" he asks.

"What, you don't want to take the train home looking like that? I bet you'd get a couple numbers."

"I think anyone who would give me her number when I'm dressed like that is not someone whose number I want. And I walked, anyway. I'm just a few blocks away."

"Your loss," says Clarke. "But yes, you can use my shower. Now look serious. You're breaking out of space or something, not flirting."

"I can't do both?"

She smiles and shakes her head, leaning in to adjust the camera. "Not until I finish taking pictures."

The shots don't take too long, and then she says, "Okay, you're done." She grabs some cash off the table and presents it. "Your payment, thanks for your help."

"My pleasure." He counts the money, not that he's worried. "How do you afford this on odd jobs?"

"I budget obsessively," she says. "And occasionally blackmail friends into helping me for free."

"That explains it." He grabs his pants and shoves the money in his pocket and smiles at her. "Shower?"

She worries her lip. "Now that you've been paid and we're square and everything, I'm going to offer to shower with you. Maybe help you out with all that pent-up arousal."

She's nervous and adorably serious; he has to laugh. "I was hoping you'd say that."

She flashes him a brief, relieved grin, and then crosses the room, tugging off her shirt as she goes. "Come on, bathroom's this way."

A week later, she shows him the finished prints. They actually look pretty great, not that he's surprised. He's discovered he really likes her art. "So, now that we're dating, are you expecting me to do this for free, or are you just going to blackmail me?"

She twists around in his arms for a quick kiss. "Neither. Now that we're dating, I'm going to paint you for pleasure only."

He grins. "For pleasure, huh?"

"Well, I've still got some chocolate body paint."

He laughs and kisses her again, longer. "Awesome."


	5. 22. “I’ve seen the way you look at me when you think I don’t notice.”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arranged marriage AU.

The ceremony is quick and awkward; Clarke holds her head high and refuses to look away from him, delivers her vows like a threat, and Bellamy is somewhat in awe of her. He'd never planned marrying at all, at least no time soon, and certainly not an arranged marriage. To a _princess_. But marriages foster peace, that's what they need. So here they are.

"I'm not fucking you," Clarke says, arms crossed, staring him down over their--fuck, _their_ \--bed, all bright-eyed passion of entirely the wrong kind. "This is a political arrangement, nothing more. Don't get the wrong idea."

"It's a marriage," says Bellamy, trying not to be amused. He wasn't really expecting her to be enthused about the situation, but her indignation is kind of adorable. He likes seeing her riled up. "That's not exactly a standard political arrangement."

"In my family it is.” She is a princess, even if their revolution has declawed the monarchy. She must have been prepared for something like this. More than he was.

"So if I was a prince, would you be spreading your legs, or is it just that I'm a commoner?"

"Depends on the prince," she says, sickly sweet, and he lets out a pleased, surprised laugh. As princesses go, she seems all right. She even looks a little pleased herself, for a second.

"I'm glad to know it's personal, then," he says, and strips down to his underclothes. He catches her watching him out of the corner of his eye, and he bites back a smile. "Does the political arrangement allow for us to share the bed? Because I'm not sleeping on the floor. Of course, you're welcome to, if you’d like."

"I'm not sleeping on the floor," she snaps, and waits until he's in bed with his eyes closed to get undressed and climb in next to him. It's awkward, but he supposes they have time to get used to it.

There's still a lot to do; the fighting is over, the new government is in place, and as much as the wedding felt like a neat bow on the upheaval, there's an entire government to reconstruct now. They both have their own new responsibilities and positions, and there isn't much time left to worry about their marriage, or its lack of consummation. Still, he manages to catch her sometimes looking at him as he dresses and undresses, and even just in passing, as they go about their separate business. She eats with him for most meals, and when he makes jokes, she smiles, even laughs sometimes.

He treasures every small glance and reluctant smile, catalogs her expressions like something precious. It shouldn't feel so stupid to be in love with his wife, but she'll still take convincing to even _like_ him. And he doesn't have much time to work on that, with everything else. 

"You're not paying attention," he tells her, nudging her foot under the table. They're eating breakfast in the great hall, and Clarke looks like she's going to fall asleep in her plate. He's been trying to talk business with her, but it's useless, under the circumstances. "What happened? I felt you tossing and turning last night."

"If you felt me tossing, how are you so well-rested?" she grumbles. "The least you could do is be miserable with me."

"I just hide it better," he says. He reaches over, hesitant, to squeeze her hand. "You can talk to me, you know."

There's something like panic in her eyes when she looks up, but it fades when he doesn't let go of her. She even smiles. "There's nothing to talk about," she says. "I just--I miss my father."

"Oh," he says. Her father died before the revolution started--his death was the impetus, with the power struggle that followed without a clear heir--so it's not something she can blame on him or any of his allies. He might even be able to comfort her. It's a strange feeling. "I lost my mother not long before you lost your father," he says, rubbing her thumb against her palm. Her skin is so _soft_. He knew she'd never worked a day in her life, but he hadn't imagined what she would feel like under his fingers. "I'm sorry you had to go through that."

"It's benefited you," she says, but it's not as sharp as it would have been when they first married.

"I think it benefited a number of people," he says, and she smiles, small. "But that doesn't mean I'm not sorry. He was a good man, and even if he wasn't, he was your father."

"He'd probably be happy," she admits, grudging. "Monarchy isn't the best system of government."

"You don't say."

A few of her friends join them, and Bellamy excuses himself to give them some privacy. Clarke is the only one of the former aristocracy he comes close to being friendly with. She watches him go, but doesn't try to stop him; he hears one of them ask her what the commoner did to keep her up so late, and smiles when he hears the man yelp in pain. He glances back and Clarke gives him a slightly smug smile.

That night, she rolls into him, pressing up against his side. "If I'm going to be awake, I'm going to keep you awake too," she says, stubborn, and Bellamy wraps his arm around her, pulling her close. She feels perfect against him, and he hopes this isn't just because she's exhausted from not sleeping last night.

"You can keep me up all night any time you want," he tells her.

"Don't tell me that line works."

"I've never tried it before. You'll have to let me know."

Her hand skates up his side, hesitant, making his heart skip. "I've seen the way you look at me when you think I don't notice," she says, soft. "Like you're actually fond of me."

"If I thought you wouldn't murder me, I'd look at you like that all the time," he says. "I've seen how you look at me too. Mostly when I'm not wearing my shirt. I don't know if _fondness_ is the word I'd choose for it, but--"

She laughs and shifts closer, looks up at him. Her hair is messy, spilling over her shoulders, and Bellamy nearly kisses her, but he stops himself. He doesn't want to ruin this, not when he's so close to everything he wants. "You do look very good when you're not wearing a shirt."

He pushes her hair behind her ear, smiles when she leans into the touch. "I'm sure you do too."

"You're not going to make this easy for me, are you? Couldn't just roll me over and have your way with me?"

"You did tell me this was a political arrangement. Nothing more. And that I'm not fucking you."

"God, Bellamy, you don't have to be so difficult all the--"

He leans up and kisses her, and she melts into him, kissing him back, and he nearly laughs with relief, except that then he'd have to _stop_ , and he's finally kissing his wife. He's not going to let that stop anytime soon.

"Better?" he asks, when he finally pulls back to tug her nightshift over her head. "I didn't make you say anything embarrassing about your fondness for me."

"You shouldn't be talking at all," she grumbles, and he laughs, sliding his hands up her sides.

"I'll try to do less of that in the future," he murmurs, and finds other, more interesting ways to occupy his mouth.

In the morning, she looks exhausted again, and he tries not to be unbearably smug about it. "What _did_ the commoner do to keep you up so late?" he teases.

She kicks him in the ankle. "You're insufferable. There must have been someone better I could have married for this treaty to work out."

"I'm sure," he agrees, cheerful. "But what's done is done. Thank goodness it's just a political arrangement."

Clarke laughs. "Thank goodness."


	6. 18. “This is without a doubt the stupidest plan you’ve ever had. Of course I’m in.”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bellamy isn't pleased about his sister's new boyfriend. Modern AU.

"I don't even know why I'm suggesting this, but you could leave your sister alone and just not worry about her new boyfriend," says Clarke, not looking up from her computer. If she looked away from her work every time Bellamy was an idiot, she would never get anything done.

"He's thirty, Clarke. Do you even know how old that is?"

"You're twenty-eight."

"Exactly! I'm way too old, and he's even older. Look, I'm not saying we break them up, just--make sure he's good enough for her."

"Bellamy," she says, gentle. "It's not really up to you to decide who's good enough for your sister. That's Octavia's decision." She finally glances up, and Bellamy is looking singularly unimpressed. "Okay, fine. Tell me your stupid plan. I'm not agreeing to it yet, just hearing you out."

"Okay, so, he's a bartender, right? Which, I'm just saying, she can barely drink, she's not supposed to be dating a guy who gives out booze professionally."

"Get to the point, Bellamy."

"So we go to the bar where he works, and you hit on him. See what happens."

"Oh my god, no, that is fucking _awful_."

Bellamy looks offended. "Why?"

"Because he's _at work_. Bartenders are paid to be charming and get good tips, if he flirts back with me while he's on the job it doesn't mean _anything_. Also, hitting on people while they're on the clock is gross. We're not doing that, don't be a fucking asshole."

"Oh," he says, and has the grace to at least sound kind of sheepish. Bellamy is stupid about his sister sometimes, but he's not a bad guy. He just doesn't always think shit through. "Yeah, I guess you're right." He snaps his fingers. "Okay, got it. I'll tell Octavia that I want to talk to her new guy, one-on-one, get to know him. And _then_ you hit on him."

"Why do all your plans involve me hitting on this guy?"

"You're hot. If anyone's going to tempt him away from Octavia, it's you."

Clarke and Bellamy have been friends since college, and Clarke's had kind of a thing for him for almost as long, and it doesn't _help_ when he says shit like that. She's twenty-six, she is not going to read into a boy telling her she's hot like it's an accepted fact. Even if she likes him.

"This is," she says, after a moment of consideration, "without a doubt, the stupidest plan you've ever had."

He grins at her, all boyish charm, and, seriously, she will murder him one day. "So, you're in, right?"

"I'm in."

He gets it set up for Tuesday night, and Clarke dresses up in a serious dress with some serious cleavage, more for Bellamy's benefit than Octavia's mysterious boyfriend. If he's going to call her hot, she can at least remind him that she totally lives up to the title.

She gets there before the two of them, but her friend Lincoln is sitting at the bar, and she hasn't seen him in ages. They got hired to do some web design for a startup a few years back, and it was a total shitshow. They spent a lot of time doing shots and crying about unrealistic client expectations, which is how she's made most of her friends since graduating from college. But Lincoln is one of her favorites.

"Hey!" she says, sliding in next to him. "Long time no see, stranger."

"Hi!" says Lincoln, grinning and giving her a hug. He looks her up and down. "You look amazing. Hot date?"

"God, I wish. My best friend--I told you about him, right?"

"I remember some sexually frustrated crying about how beautiful he is."

"In my defense, I was probably also drunk." She flags down the bartender and gets a beer. "Anyway, in additional to being beautiful and not sleeping with me, he's stupidly overprotective of his little sister, so he asked me to come here and hit on her new boyfriend as some sort of horrific loyalty test." Lincoln is looking horrified, and she sighs. "I know, it's awful, but whatever. The boyfriend will pass the test, and maybe Bellamy will notice how awesome my boobs look in this thing."

"Oh my god, your best friend is _Bellamy_. I thought he _liked me_."

Clarke stares at him, feeling pretty horrified herself. " _You're_ Octavia's boyfriend?"

"He seriously asked you to come here and hit on me?"

"He wanted me to hit on you at work, which is even worse." She frowns. "Are you bartending now?"

"Just a couple nights a week. My friend opened a bar, I'm helping her out for extra cash." He rubs his face. "Bellamy doesn't like me?"

"Bellamy is a dumbass. He thinks no one is ever going to be good enough for Octavia. I told him he was being an idiot. I'll tell him again. Harder. He's a fucking dick about his sister, it would be sweet if it wasn't so fucking stupid."

"He cares about her. It _is_ sweet." He gives her a dubious look. " _Bellamy's_ the one you've been in love with? Really?" She laughs and shoves him lightly.

"God, shut up, asshole. He's--he's great, okay? Once he gets over being a dumbass."

"How long does that usually take?"

"I'll let you know if it ever happens."

He laughs, and, god, she really has missed Lincoln, so it's kind of awesome to get a chance to catch up with him. She even forgets they're nominally waiting for Bellamy, and it takes her by complete surprise when he comes up behind her and growls, "What the hell, asshole?" at Lincoln. "Dude, you've got a girlfriend, you can't--Clarke, this is _him_ ," he snarls. He might actually throw a punch. "I know she's gorgeous, dude, but what the fuck? You've got a girlfriend."

Clarke elbows him in the side, _hard_. "Funny story, I _know_ Lincoln. We did a job together a few years ago. You're the one being an asshole here, he's a great guy."

Bellamy still looks like he's itching for a fight, glaring at the universe. Lincoln rubs the back of his neck. "Clarke did mention there was something of a plot in motion."

"You told him?" Bellamy asks, whirling on her.

"He's my friend! I already thought you were being an asshole, and, seriously, he wasn't even _hitting on me_ , we were _talking_."

"You were smiling!"

"Oh, god forbid I _smile_ ," she says. "During a normal conversation. _With a friend_."

"How was I supposed to know you were friends?" His jaw works a little. "I thought you were trying to actually flirt with him."

"Well, god forbid I flirt with a guy!"

"Well, he shouldn't--" He looks around, and Clarke notices at the same time he does that Lincoln just left. He frowns. "What the hell?"

"You can't actually be blaming him for leaving this conversation. You set him up for a fucking fidelity test, and then yelled at him when he didn't even fail it."

"You never hit on guys," he says, and it's surprisingly soft, almost embarrassed. "I was pissed. When you found out he was taken, you would be--hurt."

Clarke raises her eyebrows. "And Octavia wouldn't be hurt when you told her that her boyfriend was hitting on someone else? This is why you shouldn't do shit like this."

He slumps into Lincoln's abandoned stool. Apparently the fight has gone out of him. "Yeah, yeah." He snags her beer and takes a drink. "You still dressed up for it, though."

"Once I agree to a stupid plan, I'm all-in on a stupid plan," she says. "Besides, when's the last time I got to wear a dress that shows off my breasts like this?"

"Raven and Wick's wedding," he says, instantly, and then blushes. "Uh, I mean. Your dress for that was--nice. I wasn't staring at your chest or anything." He drinks about half of her beer in one gulp. "I'm coming off some adrenaline. Can we rewind this conversation?"

Clarke steals her beer back. Her heart's fluttering, and he's not making eye contact. "Were you _jealous_?" she asks, gleeful.

"What?"

"Oh my god, you so were! You were jealous of Lincoln."

"Seriously, let's just forget about, like, everything I have done since Octavia got a new boyfriend and keep being friends. Just pretend I'm not an asshole."

"I've known you're an asshole since before Octavia got a new boyfriend." She finishes the beer. "Just buy me another drink and tell me how great my boobs look, okay?"

"Really great," he says, sounding relieved. He gets her another beer, and one for himself, and waits until they arrive and he's drained half of his again before saying, "So, you're not upset that I was jealous and like your breasts? Because if that's cool I have some follow-up questions."

"Do you promise to not be a dick to Lincoln?"

"Yes."

"Good. I've had a crush on you pretty much since we met, so--what were your follow-up questions?"

He drains the beer in record time, drains hers too, and drags her out of the bar pretty much immediately. They're making out on her couch when Octavia texts, _I am going to fucking murder you, Bell, what the fuck is your problem??_

"I told you it was a bad idea," Clarke says. She steals his phone to reply, and he takes the opportunity to press kisses down her neck. _We just sorted our shit out, please don't kill him until I've gotten laid at least once. xoxo Clarke_

"I don't know," Bellamy says, grinning. "I think this was my best idea ever."

"Other than just _asking me out_ ," Clarke grumbles, but he's kissing her again, and the argument just doesn't feel that important, somehow.


	7. 27. “I’m pregnant.”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> College AU!

Clarke doesn't mean to get hooked on the Sims. She's never been particularly interested in video games, but she needs something to do to de-stress during finals, and she gets really involved in house design, and then in making Sims that look like all her friends, and then she gets weirdly invested in their lives. Her Sim self has a good job, and knows how to garden, and she's making out with Sim Bellamy, on their way to WooHooing. Sim Clarke is living a way better life than real Clarke.

She doesn't realize she's missed dinner until non-Sim Bellamy pounds on the door and yells, "Are you dead, Griffin?"

"If I was dead, I couldn't answer!" she calls back. "You'd just have to wait until I started to smell. Come on in, it's not locked."

He pushes the door open, grabs her spare chair and pulls it up next to her desk, frowning at the screen. "I thought you were watching a movie, but no, this is actually sadder. Are these _Sims_?"

"Yup," says Clarke. "See, this one's you! He's stargazing because he's a giant nerd, just like the real Bellamy."

"Thanks," he says, dry. "I'm glad you're so committed to verisimilitude in your creepy simulated version of me." He squints a the screen. "You couldn't have made me hotter? I'm way hotter in real life."

"They're Sims, they only get so hot." She clicks over to her own Sim, who's making dinner in her underwear. "See? I'm not hot either. It's not personal."

"You're a very pretty Sim, don't sell yourself short. Are you cooking? I thought you said this was realistic. At least you're mostly naked. That's how I imagine you cooking."

"I can cook, shut up!" She shows him the Miller and Monty Sims, having a dance party, and Raven and Wick Sims, and then feels kind of embarrassed, because they're making out.

"Are you using your Sims to virtually hook up our friends?" 

"Shut up," she says, because at least he hasn't noticed that _they're_ virtually hooking up too.

"I can't believe you _forgot to eat_ ," he teases, and she glares.

"I'm cooking in the game. That's like eating."

"It's really not." He gives her a roll and an apple, wrapped in a paper napkin from the dining hall. "I'm not sure you deserve this, I figured you didn't show up because you were studying. But I don't want it, so I guess you can keep it."

"Thanks, Bell."

He ruffles her hair. "Just try to get some sleep, okay? If you stay up all night making Raven and Wick Sims hook up, I'm going to stage an intervention."

"I'm glad you have my back."

"Yeah, yeah. And try to study!"

But he keeps popping in, bringing his homework to hang out and watch her play, even though the Sims aren't doing anything particularly exciting. It's not like he didn't hang out before, but it feels like he's spying on her, somehow, in the most friendly, casual way. But it's a lot more often now, and it's simultaneously awesome and frustrating. Plus, she can't make their Sims make out when he's around, which sucks. Now she can't even have a vicarious, simulated relationship with him.

So instead, she starts screwing with him. She gets his Sim the worst outfit she can, puts him on the slacker career track, and gives him a bad haircut and some weird face makeup. 

The alien abduction is really the icing on the cake.

He stops in after his history seminar and takes his normal seat, frowning at the seat. "Did you make me fat? I didn't even know you could do that. Why did you do that?" He pokes his stomach. "You don't think I'm getting chubby, do you? Free ice cream in dining halls is not a good thing for my life."

She snorts. "I assume your abs are chiseled. I did not make you chubby."

"You totally did. Also, my stomach is sparkling. What the hell, Clarke?"

"You're just--Sim Bellamy is eating for two, okay?"

"Oh my god, I'm _pregnant_?" he asks. "How am I pregnant? Did you knock me up?"

"How would I knock you up?"

"I dunno, it's The Sims. I assume there's a cheat code for everything. And don't think I haven't noticed our affection levels," he says, smug. "It's maxed out. There are _hearts_. I'm surprised we're not married yet."

Clarke blushes. She didn't think he was paying _that_ much attention. "Well, I'm old-fashioned and you haven't proposed," she mutters. "But no, aliens knocked you up."

"This game is fucked up, seriously."

"That's what you get for being such a nerd. If you weren't stargazing, this never would have happened."

"Well, at least it's educational." He puts his arm around the back of her chair, leaning closer to the computer and, coincidentally, to her, but he's not looking at her. "But seriously, you aren't even going to make an honest man out of me? Leaving me to be a single dad to my alien baby? That's cold, Clarke."

She glances over at him, and his face is really close. "I thought it might be creepy," she mutters.

"Creepier than hooking up Raven and Wick?"

"They're not watching me."

"Probably because they'd rather hook up with each other than you," he points out. "So, seriously, get our Sims married already so I can notice, call you out on it, and then you confess you're into me and we can hook up. And so my weird alien baby will have a mom, obviously. Do it for the alien baby, Clarke."

Clarke's mouth is dry, but she manages to say, "I'm going to do it so we can hook up, if that's cool with you."

He laughs and kisses her. "Okay, but _I'm_ doing it for my alien baby. I'm a good dad."

"Of course you are," she says, and kisses him again.


	8. 40. “Have I entered an alternate universe or did you really just crack a smile for me?”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Coffeeshop AU.

In the six months since Bellamy started working at Starbucks, he's discovered three things:

One: He hates everything that is not straight, black coffee. Or tea. Tea can stay. But aside from that, every drink Starbucks serves can go fuck itself.

Two: He also hates 95% of Starbucks patrons, for related reasons.

Three: He doesn't hate his supervisor, but his supervisor does hate him.

Clarke Griffin is driven and intense, completely terrifying. She's getting a PhD in Psychology part-time, and also is a supervisor at Starbucks, and teaches a kids' art class at the Y on Sunday mornings. From what he can tell, she actively hates having spare time, and just tries to fill every waking minute with _stuff_. He's seen her smile at customers in a tight, polite way, and at a couple regulars who seem to be friends of hers genuinely, and once when she saw a dog on the street when they were opening the store. The rest of the time, she looks like she is on the verge of murdering everyone who crosses her path. It's awesome.

Obviously, she's never smiled at Bellamy, and he's pretty sure she spends most of her time when they're on shift together wishing that he had never been hired. In her defense, it's probably because he really, really likes winding her up, so it's not like it's really her fault. She's just so hilarious when she's angry, it's hard not to tease her.

So yeah, he probably deserves her hatred. He's come to terms with being an asshole.

But he still wishes he could figure out how to make her like him. He did _try_ being nice to her for a week, around two months into the job, and on the third day she told him to go home because he was clearly sick. He's tried helping her when she needs it, and she just snaps at him and tells him he's a dumbass.

He should probably hate her, but she's fucking awesome, and he feels like if he ever convinced her he wasn't terrible, and they got to be friends, his life would be infinitely better.

Still, six months in, and nothing, so he's starting to lose hope, until he shows up for his Tuesday shift and she shoves a cupcake at him.

"What?" he asks, baffled.

"What?"

"What is this?"

"It's a cupcake. Your girlfriend said it was your birthday."

He frowns. "Who?"

"Your girlfriend." He still looks totally blank, and Clarke huffs and says, "The hot brunette who always comes in on your Monday and Thursday shifts? You give her free drinks and chat with her when it's not busy."

Bellamy starts laughing. "Holy shit, how did you overhear the one time she mentioned my birthday and figure out when that was but _not_ realize she's my sister?"

Clarke stares at him, speechless for the first time he can remember witnessing. "Your sister?"

"Octavia, my baby sister."

"Oh." She bites her lip. "Huh."

"Thanks for the cupcake. Appreciated."

"Yeah, well, happy birthday," she mutters, grudging, like she's now regretting getting it at all. "You're super old, right?"

"I'm twenty-seven, thanks."

"Super old," she agrees, petting his shoulder, like she's not twenty-four. "Get to fucking work."

His next shift, she actually smiles at him when he comes in, and he squints at her. "Are you smiling at me, or did I fall into an alternate universe?" he asks.

"I'm a very nice person, assface."

He snorts. "You have literally never smiled at me before. And you just called me assface, so."

"I smile all the time."

"Never at me. Not once in six months."

She gives him a calculating look. "So you've been, what, monitoring my facial expressions?"

"Just as they relate to me."

"Well, fuck you too," she says, cheerful. "See if I do it again again."

But she _does_. It's _weird_. She laughs and jokes around with him and even chats with Octavia, and within two weeks he's lost count of how often she's smiled at him. He asks if she's sick, finally, and she tells him he's a fucking moron, so obviously that's not it, but he doesn't have another explanation.

Two weeks after that, she gives her notice at Starbucks, and he kind of wants to cry.

"You're leaving?" he asks. "Why are you leaving? Are you going somewhere?"

"I'm going full-time on my PhD," she says. "I don't have time to do work and school anymore." She gives him a calculating look. "My last day is a week from Thursday. You want to come out and get drunk in celebration?"

"Obviously," he says, without hesitation.

He sort of assumes it's going to be a big thing, but instead it's just him and Clarke heading to the bar where her friend Raven works. He doesn't think it's a date, but he wants it to be anyway.

"Why did you start smiling at me?" he asks, once he's had three shots of liquid courage. "Seriously, have I just been living in an alternate universe for a month? I might be okay with that. It seems like a cool universe. I wouldn't mind."

Clarke throws back a shot, and he watches her shamelessly. He's tipsy and she has a hot neck. He's only human.

"Octavia's your sister," she says, and he blinks. It seems like a non-sequitur.

"Yeah."

Clarke ducks her head. "I thought she was your girlfriend."

"I know."

"I was jealous," she says, like he is the biggest idiot on the planet. "I figured it would be worse if we were friends."

He wets his lips. "No, uh. I'm single. Very single. Extremely single."

"You make yourself sound like such a catch."

"Right? I'm also twenty-seven, live with my sister, and work at Starbucks."

"While you get your masters. I do listen when you talk."

"Still." He grins. "So can I buy the next round? That would be romantic, right?"

"Keep telling yourself that."

They make out in the alley behind the bar for half an hour, and in the morning, he texts, _So, you want to get coffee sometime?_

She texts back _Oh fuck no_ almost immediately, and he considers dying of embarrassment for a few seconds, until she adds, _I've had enough coffee to last me a lifetime, just come over after your shift. We'll get pizza and make out on my couch._

That night, she calls him an asswipe five times, smiles at least fifteen, and sucks his dick.

He's pretty sure she's actually the perfect woman. If he's in an alternate universe, he is never fucking leaving.


	9. 11. "Don’t you dare throw that snowba-, goddammit!"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Monty/Miller college AU!

"Don't--I come in peace!" 

Monty lowers his snowball reluctantly; Miller has his hands up, and even if he tries to make one, Monty should be able to hit him first.

"We're on different teams, there is no peace."

"I think we could win this thing," says Miller.

"Again, different teams."

"For now." Miller stuffs his hands in his pockets, which is actually more reassuring than having them up. He’s casual and relaxed, probably not plotting anything.

Probably.

The annual Ark dormitory snowball fight has been a tradition since their freshman year--first floor (including Monty) versus second floor (including Miller). This year, there's an air of melancholy about it, because they're seniors, and it's the last time. It's fun, but--he's really going to miss it next year. He doesn't know where he's going to be, but he's not going to be with all of these people, involved in all-out snow warfare.

"For now?" he asks, raising his eyebrows at Miller.

"Bellamy and Clarke are being fucking ridiculous."

"They're always ridiculous."

"Yeah, but--even more than usual. You must have noticed."

Clarke is the leader of Monty's team, and she is a little--intense. Probably because she and Bellamy have been dancing around each other for years, and they're also nervous about graduating and leaving each other behind, so instead of just dealing with their feelings and making out like normal people, they're getting overly invested in guerrilla warfare. This thing has been going for _hours_. Miller might have a point.

"I did notice, yeah," Monty admits.

"So, I'm thinking, if we go rogue, we can probably win this whole thing. Make an alliance. No one will expect it." He offers a small smile. "It's the last one. Might as well go out with a bang, right?"

"You want me to betray all my friends, turn on them, assassinate them with snowballs, and then laugh in their faces?" Monty asks.

"I never said you had to laugh in their faces."

"No, but I'm definitely going to."

Miller grins. "So, we've got a deal?"

"We've got a deal."

It's pretty easy to kill people who think they're your allies. And, honestly, most of his team is already fed up with Clarke's weird, gung-ho _we must annihilate them and burn their village to the ground_ attitude; Fox is definitely relieved when he snipes her. She and Murphy go to grab hot chocolate, and Monty's even a little jealous that he's staying out here to continue to murder everyone. 

He can't do that to Jasper, though. Jasper is his best friend, his forever roommate. His bro. He's not going to snowball Jasper in the back, without warning. 

But he's also not going to invite him to the alliance. This is between him and Miller. Clarke and Bellamy aren't the only ones who get to deal with their sexual tension with snowball fights. Not that Monty is convinced the sexual tension with Miller is, like, tense on both sides, but whatever. He's taking what he can get, and what he can get right now is a secret alliance with Miller.

Jasper is with Maya, hiding behind a snow wall they've made, periodically looking up to see if there's anyone on the other side they can snipe. Miller better be killing his friends too, or else Monty is going to get shunned for life.

Oh well, YOLO.

He hits Maya in the back, and she stares up at him, betrayed. "Dude, come on."

"I'm doing this for all of us, Maya!" he tells her. "Well, mostly me. But you can go inside now."

"What the hell?" asks Jasper.

"I might have made an alliance with Miller and agreed to go rogue with him and betray you guys. But just because Clarke and Bellamy have clearly lost it and I want to make out with him. So, yeah. I'm going to murder you now, Jasper. Sorry."

"Come on, seriously? After all we've been through?"

"If you die, we can go inside and make out," Maya points out. "And this is boring as fuck."

Jasper sighs. "Yeah, okay. Please put us out of our misery."

"I'm glad we're all so cold and dead inside that betrayal seems totally cool," Monty says, and hits him in the chest.

"I will be getting my revenge later. When you least suspect it."

"Looking forward to it," says Monty, and they high five as he and Maya leave.

Clarke is in a tree, glaring across the quad at Bellamy, who's got a fucking umbrella. They are the most ridiculous people he knows. They are probably going to die out here.

"Do you even have any snow up there?" Bellamy yells.

"Why don't you come over here and find out?"

Miller appears at his side, out of nowhere. "My entire team either died or surrendered," he says. "It's just those two left. I don't think they've even noticed we're all gone."

"So, we have to beat them to win?"

Miller shrugs. "Or we could just let them tire themselves out. See if they ever figure it out."

"But then who wins?"

Miller raises his eyebrows; Monty realizes, suddenly, that he's got a snowball in his hand.

He drops to the ground, rolls, comes up with a snowball of his own. "Curse your sudden but inevitable betrayal."

Miller smirks. "I betrayed everyone else, why wouldn't I betray you?"

"I thought we had a deal!" Miller just tosses the snowball in the air, a clear threat, and Monty says, "Dude, come on, don't do it, we can go out together. We can be--" He stops, like he's pleading, but slings his own snowball and hits Miller square in the jaw, grinning. "I can be the champion!" 

Miller tackles him, grinning, trying to stuff snow down his jacket. Monty feels like he's ten again, scuffling in the back yard, until Miller pulls back, and then he remembers he's twenty-one and sexual tension is a thing, because his crush is definitely on top of him and grinning and, okay, yeah, this is about to get either awesome or awkward.

"So, uh," he says, licking his lips, awkwardly. "I won. What do I win?"

Miller grins and kisses him, and Monty forgets for a long moment that he's on the ground, in the snow, freezing his ass off, because he and Miller are fucking making out, and it's awesome.

Then Miller stuffs a handful of snow down his back, and he yelps. "Goddamnit!"

Miller grins and offers him a hand up. "Sudden but inevitable betrayal," he says, kissing Monty again once they're up. "Want to come get warm?"

"Yes," says Monty, instantly. He glances back at the tree, which still has Clarke in it. "Are we just going to leave them?"

"They'll figure it out," says Miller. "We did, right?"


	10. 42. "I swear it was an accident."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bellamy/Clarke roommates AU.

"Okay, I swear this was an accident," says Clarke.

Bellamy raises his eyebrows at her. "That's not how I like conversations to start."

"Do you ever just--start arguing with someone and say whatever it takes to win the argument even knowing it's a terrible idea and you're going to regret it but it's too late to back down?"

"I know you do. All the time."

"Anyway, you're coming to my mom's wedding as my date."

"How do you _accidentally_ decide to take me to your mom's wedding as your date?"

Clarke flops down on the couch next to him, closing her eyes and leaning back. She looks exhausted. "We were arguing about how she thinks my life has no direction and I'm going to die miserable and alone and she just wants me to be happy, and I told her I was happy, and fulfilled, and--" She worries her lip. "I said I had my job and my friends and you, and I meant, like, my best friend and roommate and forever emergency contact, but she thought I meant we'd decided to take our relationship to the next level."

"And instead of telling her that, you just went with it," Bellamy supplies.

"Of course."

"And she invited me to the wedding."

"Of course."

Bellamy puts his arm around her and squeezes. "Of course. And you actually expect me to come with you?"

"I am hoping you'll take pity on me, yes." She sighs and leans into him. "It would be nice to not be there alone. It's going to be a trainwreck. You can keep me from throwing a drink on my mom's fiance."

"I'm definitely not going to stop you from doing that."

She laughs. "Okay, yeah, you're not. But you'll come?"

"I cannot believe you're accidentally taking me to a wedding because you're too stubborn to tell your mom we're not dating."

"The food's at least going to be pretty good."

"It better be."

*

"So, your plan is to dress up really fancy, be incredibly charming, win Clarke over with your nonexistent dance moves, and marry her?" Octavia asks.

"I'm going to rock this wedding, yes," says Bellamy. "And if that's something she's into, that would be cool."

"Have you tried just asking her out on a date like a normal person?"

"It's been too long, it's weird now. Like when someone doesn't know your name but you don't correct them the first time, and the longer it goes the more awkward it is to tell them, so your coworker now just thinks your name is actually Bernie and you're never going to tell her otherwise."

"That is the stupidest reason I've ever heard for not dating someone."

"Or I'm a total wuss," he says.

"Or that," says Octavia. "Come on, I'll help you find a tux."

*

"Okay, so my mom's name is Abby."

"I know your mom's name, Clarke," he says, amused. She's sprawled on the couch, tucked under his arm, with Facebook open on her iPad. It is about the most domestic thing they have ever done, and it's embarrassing how much he's enjoying himself.

"Fine. This is her fiance, Marcus. Have you ever actually met Wells? I know he never gets out here."

"Once or twice. He's going to be there?"

"Yup. And his dad, Thelonious."

"You know I'm going to be introduced to all these people, right? They're not going to quiz me beforehand. You don't need to make flashcards."

"I know. I just don't want you to be--I dunno. Caught off guard."

"Clarke, I've known you for five years. I think I'm prepared." He squeezes her shoulder. "Don't worry. I'm not going to embarrass you in front of your family."

"That's the last thing I'm worried about," she mutters. "I don't want it to suck for _you_."

He laughs. "There's an open bar, right? I'll be fine."

"I haven't brought anyone home in a long time," she admits. "Or, well, not home, but--to meet my mom. That's why you haven't met her before."

"That and you guys are--"

"Yeah," she says, wry. "We have a lot of issues. Anyway, they're going to be really judgmental. I just want it to be as painless as possible."

"Again, open bar. Don't worry about it. If I didn't want to come, I would have told you I wasn't coming."

She squints up at him. "You're being remarkably chill about this."

"It's a wedding. I've been to weddings before. I'll charm your family and your mom will _cry_ when you tell her we broke up."

"Mm," Clarke says. "Probably she'll keep goading me into shit and before you know it, I'll tell her we're getting married and I'll have to fake my own death to get out of it."

"You've got this all figured out."

"Prepare for all eventualities."

He sighs and settles in closer. "Okay, so, Thelonious is your friend Wells' dad."

She smiles, soft. "Thanks, Bellamy."

"Well, I don't want your mom to hate me. I'm going to have to comfort her when you fake your own death."

*

The morning of the wedding is mostly Clarke running around trying to find all the different parts of her outfit while Bellamy hangs out playing 3DS on the couch, because _he_ got dressed in like no time.

"Why are you so much better at this than I am?" she asks, on her third pass looking for her shoes.

"I have fewer accessories. And I'm a better human being."

"That must be it." She stops in front of him twenty minutes later, hands on her hips, and says, "Okay, game off, stand up."

He smiles up at her. "Hey, you look gorgeous."

"Of course I do, it's my mom's wedding, and we don't get along. She's going to take it as a personal insult if I look anything less than awesome, so I am going to be the perfect daughter and shove it in her face."

"You guys have such a healthy thing going." He stands and holds his arms out. "Do I pass inspection?"

She reaches up, brushes his hair out of his eyes. "Yeah, you look great. Did I say thanks?"

"Ten billion times. Seriously, it's a wedding. I'm not giving you a kidney."

"You're going to have to pretend to be into me."

"I'll manage," he says, and kisses her forehead. "Come on, let's go be really passive aggressive with your mom."

She lets out a long breath. "Yeah, let's do this."

She's in the wedding party, of course, so she drops him off with her friend Wells and gives him a quick kiss, for good measure. He hopes he doesn't look like too much of a gaping idiot; that would be suspicious.

"So, how long have you and Clarke been together?" Wells asks. "She didn't mention it."

"Yeah, it's only been a couple months, and we're pretty quiet about it," he says. "We've been friends for so long, it's--" He laughs, feeling himself flush a little. "Most of our friends already assumed we were together, so when we tried to tell them they were just like, yeah, we know."

"That's not that long. I'm surprised she asked you to come."

"Like I said, we've been friends for a long time." He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "And--she's definitely it for me," he admits.

Wells nods. "I thought so." Then he grins and claps Bellamy on the back. "That's awesome. I've been rooting for you guys."

"Yeah. We get that a lot."

*

The wedding goes off without a hitch; Clarke's mother and her new husband barely have time to meet him, but Abby at least gives him a firm handshake and a ghost of a smile. It probably helps that Clarke is tucked into his side, beaming up at him like she's never seen anything quite as good as he is. It's a heady feeling.

Once that's done, she drags him to the bar, and they grab cocktails and watch the first dance.

"It was a nice ceremony," he says. "Very classy."

"Mm," she agrees. "She looks happy, right?"

"Very happy." He looks down at her. "You doing okay?"

"Yeah. Thanks for coming again. I'm really glad you're here."

"I've had worse Saturdays."

She laughs and kisses his cheek. "I'm going to go do the stupid dance I'm supposed to do. Try not to get too drunk in the next five minutes."

"That sounds like a challenge!" he calls after her.

Her groomsman is pretty hot, actually, and clearly trying to flirt, but Bellamy sees her smile and incline her head his direction; he waves slightly, and when the dance is over, the guy lets Clarke go without comment.

"Didn't want to try to hit that?" he asks, handing her back her drink.

"That would look great, what with my boyfriend here and all," she says, rolling her eyes.

"Yeah, but--"

She finishes her drink and then his and drags him toward the dance floor. "Come on, boyfriend. We're dancing."

"You know I suck at dancing."

"It's just swaying in a circle," she says, rolling her eyes.

She puts her arms around his neck, and his settle at her hips. She leads, to the extent that either of them do. It really is just swaying, but Bellamy's still looking down every few seconds to check and make sure he's not stepping on her.

The third time he does it, she catches his jaw and makes him look at her. "Bellamy."

"Yeah?"

"It wasn't an accident."

"Hm?"

"When I told my mom you were my boyfriend, it wasn't an accident. Well, I didn't know she'd misinterpret, but when she asked, I told her you were."

"I know. You always make really questionable decisions when you're in an argument with your mom."

She huffs. "No, you don't get it. I _want_ you to be my boyfriend. I wanted this to happen."

Bellamy's breath catches, and she looks away this time, down at their feet. At least someone is making sure he's not stepping on her.

"I should have just told you," she says. "I didn't know how."

He strokes her side with his thumb, tongue darting out to wet his lips. "I didn't know how either. You did better than I did." When she doesn't respond, he says, "I told Octavia I was just going to be really charming and win you over with my hot tux, but that was as much of a plan as I had."

"It is a hot tux," she says, looking back up at him. "I was hoping my cleavage was going to do it."

"It probably would have, if you'd waited for a few more drinks," he says. He leans in brushing his nose against hers. "Is your mom going to hate me if I make out with you at her wedding?"

"Probably," she says, pulling him closer, smiling.

"Oh well. Worth it."


	11. 35. "You heard me. Take. It. Off."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Blanket fic! Definitely porn, just saying.

"Come again?" says Bellamy. His arms are crossed in front of him, and Clarke can tell he's trying to look standoffish and irritated, but it's clear the real reason he's doing it is that it's fucking _cold_. He's ridiculous.

"You heard me. Take it off. We're going to freeze to death in here if we just go to sleep. It's just going to get colder."

"We could make a fire," he tries, but for some reason, her parents are the only rich people with a ski cabin who _don't_ have a fucking fireplace. Clarke gives him her least impressed look, and he relents. "Fine, not a fire. But--something else."

"Look, I know that guys have to deal with some, uh, size issues when it's cold, but you shouldn't worry about that. This is a judgment free zone. I'll add like two sizes to--"

"Oh my god, shut up," he says, rubbing his face. "Why do I have to get naked first? If you're so excited about it, why don't you take off your clothes?"

"Fine," she snaps, but she's not really looking forward to it either. Nothing says _fine holiday fun_ like a freezing to death because a storm knocked out the power in her parents' cabin.

It just figures something like this would happen. This was supposed to be the first time all her college friends got together since graduation, an epic New Year's celebration to end all New Year's celebrations, but with the weather, everyone else had their flights canceled. Bellamy made it because he was driving, and even that was close; she was terrified he'd get himself killed before he got in. Honestly, she's just glad her parents got out before the storm hit; the only thing she can think of worse than being stuck in a cabin in a blizzard without electricity with Bellamy Blake is being stuck in a cabin in a blizzard without electricity with Bellamy Blake _and_ her recently divorced parents. She'd probably be happier freezing to death.

He's watching her, like he doesn't really believe she's going to do it, so she peels the bed sheets back and tugs off her shirt and jeans, leaving her in her bra, underwear, and socks. "Your turn," she says, rubbing her arms and stubbornly not getting into the bed. She's not sure why, except she wants to prove a point. It's cold, she doesn't know what's happening anymore.

"You're not even naked," he says. "You made this sound a lot more dramatic." He strips down to his underwear--black boxer briefs, unfairly attractive, and goddamnit she was really not prepared for this--and raises his eyebrows, a challenge. "Get in the bed before you turn blue," he tells her, pulling back the sheets on his side and climbing in.

She gets in next to him and presses right up against his side, as close as she can get, because that's how this _works_. Sharing body heat only helps if they actually share. He lets out a soft noise, surprised and maybe amused. He pulls the sheets up over them and then wraps his arms around her, and she can feel herself getting warmer already.

"So, hi," he says, sounding amused.

"Hi."

"How was your Christmas?"

She laughs and buries her face against his neck. "We're talking about Christmas?"

"Jesus, your nose is freezing," he grumbles. "We didn't really get a chance to talk when I showed up. Too busy trying to make sure we didn't die. Now I'm pretty sure we're as alive as we're going to get, so we can catch up. I haven't seen you since you graduated."

"Christmas was nice," Clarke says, sliding her leg between his. She and Bellamy have a complicated history--they only met because of Octavia, and they spent a few months butting heads before they got totally wasted, had a long, weirdly intimate conversation about their childhoods and insecurities, and then suddenly they were even closer friends than she and Octavia were. She's missed him the last six months and even though being stuck in a freezing cabin with the guy she still has kind of a crush on is awkward as hell (especially with the mostly naked snuggling thing), it's nice to have a chance to hang out, just the two of them. "My parents made nice with each other and showered me with a ton of gifts to try to prove which one of them loves me more."

He laughs. "Yeah?"

"What can I say, I'm totally benefiting from this divorce. How about you? Please tell me you weren't alone the whole time."

"Not the whole time." The blanket slips off her shoulder and she shivers as she pulls it back up; Bellamy tugs her closer against his chest, almost absent, and rubs her back. "O and Lincoln were around until Christmas Eve, and then they went to see his family, so we just did Christmas early. And then Miller and Monty had me over for dinner the day of."

"That's good. I was having visions of you sitting at home alone and drinking." 

"Nah, I was drinking with friends, so it's not weird." He noses her hair, so intimate it makes her shiver. "Still cold?"

"Of course I'm cold," she snaps, embarrassed, and feels immediately guilty. It's not his fault she's getting turned on by this whole thing. "But--less cold."

His fingers slide up, hooking under the strap of her bra. "You know we're not at maximum body heat, right?" His voice is a little rough, deliberate, and Clarke's heart stutters.

She slides her leg higher between his, pushing up high enough to feel that, yeah, she's not the only one getting turned on here. He growls and turns them over in one fluid motion, and suddenly she's flat on her back looking up at him. He's still pressed close, but she can see his face now, open and hopeful, the start of a smile on his lips. She reaches back and unhooks her bra, shoves it under the covers next to her, not wanting to put her arm out in the cold. There's enough cold in the air between them that her nipples harden pretty much instantly, and Bellamy's clearly trying not to stare and failing. Clarke smirks and cups her breast, giving her nipple a flick with her thumb.

His eyes darken, and he leans in to press his mouth against her neck. "Fuck," he groans. His mouth is so fucking warm it makes her shiver again, but that's not really what she wants. She tugs his hair, pulling him up for a real kiss, and he comes willingly. The kiss is slow and easy right up until Bellamy's hand joins hers on her breast, and that's enough to kick her into overdrive, turn everything messy and hungry.

She tugs his underwear down and off and wraps her legs around his waist, pulling him closer. He's fully hard now, and Clarke moans as he pushes against her. "What are the odds there are condoms anywhere close enough we can get them without freezing to death?" she asks.

Bellamy stares at her for a minute, apparently too dazed from the kissing to figure out what she said. It makes her feel pretty badass, if she does say so herself. Then he buries his face against her neck, laughing. "Shit. I didn't even bring any. I didn't think there was a chance in hell you'd be interested."

Clarke slides her hands up his back, amused and pleased. "Interested, huh?" He freezes and pulls back, looking horrified. Clarke shivers at the feel of cold air where his body used to be and pulls him back against her. "You're an idiot, I'm crazy about you. Don't freak out, we'll freeze to death _and_ I won't get laid."

He relaxes again, goes back to pressing kisses against her neck. "That would be a shame," he agrees. "You're crazy about me?"

"Yeah. I really missed you."

"You know the first thing you said when you saw me today was, _oh, fuck no_?" he asks, amused.

"I was pissed you _drove through a fucking blizzard_. And kind of worried I was going to do something to make it awkward, like make you take off your clothes and climb into bed with me for warmth."

"That does sound awkward." He nips her shoulder. "We can still do lots of things to keep warm without a condom."

Clarke rubs up against him, frustrated. He's hard and feels perfect against her, and this is just not fair. "When's the last time you got tested?"

"A couple months." He licks his lips. "I'm definitely clean. Haven't really been, uh--interested. In hooking up."

"I've got the implant, so--" she grins. "It's for body heat, right? Otherwise we might die."

He snorts. "Right, it's definitely not that you're horny. It's for survival."

"Uh huh," says Clarke, wriggling out of her underwear. "You really need to pound me into this mattress, or I might die."

"God, who even _says_ that?" he asks, laughing. But his hand slides down to play with her clit, even as he's teasing her, so at least he's on top of his priorities. Clarke shudders, feeling heat gathering between her legs, just as good as she always thought it would be with him. She hasn't gotten laid in months, and this is _Bellamy_. If not for the freezing death cabin around them, it would be perfect.

"Come on, Bell, your planet needs you."

He just kisses her again, which is definitely a lot better than talking. She pulls the sheets up over their heads so she can tangle her fingers in his hair without freezing her arm off; Bellamy retaliates by swirling his tongue around her nipple, and she grinds her hips against his fingers, desperate.

"I think you might just be horny," he says, against her breast, and she hits his shoulder. 

"Maybe I just like you, did you ever think of that?"

"All the time." He licks his lips. "You sure you want to risk, uh--" He gestures down at his dick, and Clarke takes a moment to appreciate it. He has an excellent dick.

"I trust you."

His grin is sudden, boyish and delighted, and it makes her stupid stomach flip over. 

"Okay," he says, kissing her again, and then he's sliding in, and she doesn't have any room left in her brain for anything but _this_ , Bellamy's mouth against her, Bellamy inside her, fucking her fast and hard and _perfect_ , and by the time he fumbles his hand between them to stroke her clit, she's already most of the way done.

He comes a few strokes after she does, moaning her name against her neck, and they stay there, panting and entangled, for a long moment before Bellamy says, "Are you really hot now?"

Clarke dissolves into giggles. "Yes. But if you lift up the sheets and let the cold air in, I'm going to fucking murder you."

"Got it." He rolls off her so he's next to her instead, and even though she's sweating and flushed, she misses having him so close. He must agree, because he snakes his arm out and pulls her in next to him after only a second. "Can I at least put my head out? I feel like I'm going to choke on the blankets."

"If you have to."

It's still cold as fuck when he sticks his head out, but that just means Clarke needs to burrow closer, so it could be worse. 

Bellamy squeezes her shoulder. "Did I tell you I've got a job interview?"

"No, that's awesome. For what?"

"Assistant Curator at the MFA."

She props herself up on his chest, and then immediately regrets it because she lets in _so much cold air_. He laughs as she flattens herself against him and tugs she sheets closer around them. "Shut up," she mutters. "In Boston? Seriously?"

"I'd say it's because it's a good opportunity and prospects or whatever, but honestly? You're in Boston, so I want to be in Boston. I've got a couple other applications in too, in case this one doesn't work out."

Clarke smiles and trails her hand up his side. "I want you to be in Boston too," she tells him. "But, you know, I'm getting kind of cold again. I might need more body heat. For survival."

"Definitely not just horny."

"Definitely not."

He slides his hands down her back to her ass and gives her a firm grope. "Well, if it's for survival."


	12. 5. "Wait a minute. Are you jealous?"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Modern AU, TV show costars!

"What do you think about Finn Collins?"

Bellamy glances up from his script. "I don't really think about Finn Collins. He's on--that teen show? With the werewolves? The one that's not _Teen Wolf_. Or is he a different one?"

Clarke snorts. "I can't tell if you're an asshole on purpose, or if it's just a happy coincidence."

"I like to think of it as an innate talent," he says, grinning at her. "Seriously, why are you asking about Finn Collins? I don't think I've ever met him before. I have no thoughts on him."

"I was thinking I could take him to the People's Choice Awards."

Bellamy frowns, confused. "Why?"

"I dunno, he's kind of cute, he's already going for his show--which is about _witches_ , come on, Blake, know your supernatural teen dramas--we're friends, and he'd probably go with me."

"I'm cute," says Bellamy, sounding petulant. "I'm already going. We're friends."

She raises her eyebrows. "You want to go to the People's Choice Awards with me?"

"No, I just sort of--figured we would. Present a unified front and all. But sure, go with Finn Collins. I'll just take somebody else. That makes more sense anyway. Divide and conquer. Way better strategy."

Clarke bites back a smile. "That's the spirit. We're going to need more troops for the People's Choice Awards. Overwhelm them with our forces."

"Exactly." He closes his script and stands, stretching. "Ready to go?"

"Ready."

*

Clarke was the first person cast for _Et In Arcadia_ ; she knew Marcus Kane, the Executive Producer, from a previous project, and he was sure she was the woman for the job. She did a few readings and screen tests by herself, and then they insisted on checking her with the finalists for her character's partner, to make sure they got the chemistry right.

Bellamy was the first one she met. She'd seen him before, at events and award shows, remembered him from a fucking _Disney Channel_ show when she was twelve and he must have been barely sixteen, but they'd never actually met.

He was sitting in the hall, studying the script, and she sat down next to him and asked, "So, do you think the name'll make it?"

He looked up, gave her a confused look. "Why wouldn't it?"

"I dunno, Latin? Seems like a hard sell."

Bellamy traced his fingers over the script, deliberate, studying like it was written in braille. "Et In Arcadia Ego," he says. "Even in paradise, here I am. Death is everywhere." He gave her a crooked smirk. "They already shortened it, what more do you want? This is HBO, you know. They're probably okay with a little pretension."

Clarke grinned back, and her mind was made up before they even did the reading. This was her costar. She wanted this one.

*

"So, do you have a date?" Clarke asks. She hasn't actually mentioned the whole People's Choice thing to Finn yet. She likes Finn fine, but--well, it's not like she _has_ to go with him. She might be able to do better. Or she could go alone, like the independent woman that she is. Or she could take a girl, and give her publicist and agent fucking heart attacks. She has options.

"Tonight?" Bellamy asks. He grabs two muffins and puts one on his plate and one on hers. "Nope. I'm free. Why, are you looking?"

She elbows him. "I meant for the People's Choice Awards."

"Oh, that? Yeah."

"Already?" 

"It's in like three weeks," he says. "If I don't get a move on, all the good dates are going to be taken." He hands her two coffee cups, and she fills them and hands one back to him, and follows him over to their table. "You lock Collins down?"

"You guys are already on a last-name basis?"

"I've never met him, what am I supposed to call him?"

"I think he'd probably be fine with Finn." She pokes at her muffin. "I haven't actually asked him yet. He was just one of my options."

Bellamy snorts. "One of your options, huh? How many options are we talking here? Got a rolodex?"

"It's 2015, no one has a rolodex anymore. Who are you?"

He rolls his eyes. "Seriously, tell me more about these options. I want to hear all about how the B-list celebrity finds her dates."

"I like to think I'm a B-plus. Also, don't you know? You already have a date, you probably went through a similar process. Who's your date?"

"You don't know her."

"How do you know? I know lots of people."

"She's not an actress." He pulls his phone out to scroll through his pictures, and hands it over once he's found what he's looking for. It's him with a beautiful, dark-haired girl, arms around each other, both of them grinning. Bellamy's not exactly known for his cheerful personality--he smirks more than he smiles, but Clarke likes that in a person--and she's not sure she's ever seen him looking so happy. "Octavia," he says, like this is supposed to mean something to her.

"Girlfriend?" she asks. He's never mentioned one before, but--she's obviously _something_.

He gives her an amused look. "Definitely not." He takes the phone from her, carefully, and Clarke finds herself vaguely scowling at the table instead of the picture. "She just thought it sounded like fun when I mentioned it."

"Well, I'm sure the two of you will have a great time."

He's still looking amused. "I'm sure we will."

*

When Clarke gets home she googles _Octavia_ , which is, of course, completely useless, because she doesn't have a last name or anything. She tries _Octavia model_ , because the girl definitely _looked_ like a model, and it seems plausible that Bellamy has some model friend-with-benefits who wants to go to the People's Choice Awards with him. Some gorgeous, perfect model, who's never been told she needs to lose a couple pounds for this role, or that she's too serious, or that she could be friendlier to producers she doesn't know.

Then she closes her laptop and flops down on her bed, because--seriously, what the _fuck_.

*

Two days later, Bellamy gives her a rolodex. There's a bow on it and everything.

"So you can keep track of all your beaus."

"Are you secretly a time traveler?" Clarke asks, squinting. "Do you forget what technology and vocabulary we use in this current era?"

"If I was a time traveler, I would definitely tell you and take you on awesome time adventures."

Clarke takes the bow off the rolodex and sticks it to his chest, right over his heart. "Yeah, you better."

*

"I think I'm going to go alone," she tells Bellamy, a week before the awards. "To the People's Choice Awards."

"What happened to dividing and conquering?"

"You think I can't conquer on my own?"

He grins. "I think you're a one-woman army. But why the change of heart? You were the one who was looking for someone to take in the first place."

"I dunno." She shrugs. "If I have a date, I'm just going to have to hang out with them the whole night, right? And none of my potential dates seemed cool enough." She glances at him. "Can your date carry on a conversation, or is she mostly arm candy?"

"She's working on her PhD right now, that's usually good for a few hours' worth of conversation."

"Seriously? In what?"

"Child psychology. She works with at-risk kids."

Clarke groans. "How?"

"She applied for jobs and a PhD program," Bellamy says, amused. "It's pretty simple. Just pick a career path, and--"

"That's not what I meant."

"I have no idea what you did mean."

"She's smart, she's beautiful, she works with _at-risk kids_. How do you have the completely perfect date for this? She is flawless. You should probably marry her."

Bellamy almost falls over laughing. A couple passing crew members look alarmed, and Clarke can't blame them. She's never seen him laughing so hard. He might hurt himself. "Oh my god," he says, recovering "I thought--I didn't really _believe_ \--" He grins at her. "I didn't think it would _work_."

Clarke crosses her arms over her chest. "What?"

"You're jealous."

"I am not."

"You are. You're jealous of my beautiful, accomplished date."

"Just because I don't have one."

"I only got a date because _you_ were getting one," he says, putting his arm around her shoulders and guiding her toward his trailer. "You told me you were taking your ex-costar."

Clarke pokes him in the ribs. "Wait, were _you_ jealous?"

"Of course I was jealous," he says, holding the door open for her. She goes in, feeling something starting to flutter in her chest. "You were supposed to go with me, and I would be very charming and awesome and win you over. I'll have you know I'm an excellent date."

"And you, what, made up some amazing girl to make me jealous?"

"She's completely real," he says. He leans in and brushes his nose against hers, smiling. "She's also my little sister. I was going to tell you, but--you looked so _pissed_. It was awesome."

"Your little sister," she repeats.

"Yeah. I was moping about you having a date and how I was going to be alone, and she volunteered to come with me. To put me out of my misery." 

Clarke slides her hand into his hair and pulls him in for a kiss before responding, because he's really fucking _close_ and it's driving her crazy. He slides his hands up her sides, careful not to mess up her outfit, because they're back on set in an hour and the last thing they need is anyone figuring out they've been making out in Bellamy's trailer.

"I can't believe you used your sister to make me jealous," she says, between kisses. "That's gross."

"Yeah," he agrees. "It was mostly an accident. I did tell you she definitely wasn't my girlfriend."

"You did."

"Think you can find a date in the next week? So she'll have someone to hang out with."

"Because you're planning to hang out with me?"

"I'm always planning to hang out with you," he says. He kisses her again. "And she really wants to meet you. So bring someone cool, okay? I want her to have a good time."

"I'll see what I can do. I do want to make a good impression."

*

Clarke brings her friend Lincoln, a stuntman who only just started acting himself last year, and walks the red carpet with him. But when they get inside, Bellamy's already waiting for her, with a drink, because he's the actual best.

"So, this is my sister," he says, and the gorgeous girl from the picture beams at Clarke.

"Hi, I've heard so much about you!"

"You too," says Clarke, because she had heard, independently, about Bellamy's People's Choice date and Bellamy's beloved little sister, and she's kind of annoyed at him for never mentioning her name _once_ in the last year and a half, because, really, was he keeping her in reserve just in case he needed a fake date to make her jealous? He is clearly some sort of evil mastermind. "This is my friend Lincoln," she says, and gets the two of them talking. They're definitely hitting it off, so maybe she's kind of an evil mastermind too. Or at least a decent matchmaker.

People start heading towards the hall, and Bellamy offers his arm, giving Clarke a wry smile. "United front?"

Clarke downs her drink and takes it. "United front."


	13. 25. "I can't believe you talked me into this."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> College AU!

"I can't believe you talked me into this," says Bellamy, looking at the dunking booth with what he feels is an appropriate amount of wariness and trepidation. He told his sister he'd help out with her sorority's fundraiser, and he assumed that would involve selling tickets or lifting heavy objects or something. Not being in a fucking dunk tank.

"It's hot out, you'll be way happier being in the water that sweating at some carnival booth," says Octavia. "And I'm doing it too, it's not like I'm making you something I'd never do."

"That doesn't really help," he grumbles, because while he in theory appreciates that they're having one booth for people who want to see a hot, wet, mostly naked guy, and one for people who want to see a hot, wet, mostly naked girl, he's not thrilled the girl is Octavia, and he's going to spend the day falling into a pool of water while frat guys heckle his sister. "You seriously owe me."

"It's for charity," she says, patting his arm. "Go put on your bathing suit."

The actual dunking is surprisingly fun. Octavia was right, it's hot as hell, and only about one-in-ten shots actually lands him in the water, so by the time he goes back into the water, it's cool and refreshing and honestly a relief. He gets pretty good at heckling people, taunting them into spending more money on shots, and by mid-afternoon, he's actually feeling awesome about the whole thing.

Then, Clarke Griffin shows up.

Clarke is on the rugby team with Octavia, terrifying, hot, incredibly driven, and basically Bellamy's dream girl, except she hates him, because he has this really bad habit of putting his foot in his mouth around her. And starting arguments with her for fun. And just generally being an asshole in her general direction. He thinks she kind of likes him anyway, though. He seems to amuse her. 

Clarke gives the girl manning the booth a twenty and _smirks_ at him. "At five dollars for three balls," she says, tossing her first shot in one hand, contemplative, "I can sink you a maximum of twelve times. What do you want to bet I get all twelve?"

He snorts. "No way."

"No?"

"Definitely not. There's no way."

"What do I get if I do?"

"The satisfaction of a job well done."

"Hmm, I think you should give me something cooler."

He crosses his arms. "I should, huh? What do I get when you _don't_ hit all twelve?"

"What do you want?"

He wets his lips. She's grinning, flushed from the heat, wearing her rugby jersey and some tiny little shorts. "You can buy me dinner," he says, and watches her mouth form a soft _oh_ of surprise. "It'll be fun. We can talk about your whole over-confidence thing."

Clarke rolls her eyes. "When I sink all twelve, you're going to get me one of those giant stuffed animals from the shooting booth. You have connections, right? You work here."

"Fine," he says. "Bring it on."

Clarke nails ten shots in a row, one after another, like she's a fucking machine. Every time he scrambles back into the seat, Clarke dunks him again, immediately, and he's soaking wet and shivering and kind of glad about it, because apparently this is a turn-on for him, and it's just as well he's too cold and sad for his dick to register any interest. 

"I think I want _two_ stuffed animals," she remarks, smug. "There was a unicorn and a puppy." She throws number eleven and he goes down.

"You probably deserve two," he agrees, when he makes it back into his seat.

"I played softball all through high school," she says. "All-star pitcher." She tosses the last ball in the air again, catches it in her and, gives him another contemplative look. 

And then, very deliberately, she misses the target and walks away without a word.

She comes back at the end of the night when he's drying himself off. She's got a giant stuffed unicorn under one arm and a giant stuffed puppy under the other.

"I'm also a really good shot with fake guns," she says, when he raises his eyebrows at her. Then she grins. "I think you should pay for dinner. I was making a statement."

Bellamy laughs. "I could pay for dinner. But next time, you better win me a unicorn."

She's still grinning, and it's basically the best thing ever. He should buy Octavia dinner too. "Well, if you insist."


	14. "I bet your skin is warm and that you're smiling/ yeah that's what I always loved the most about you"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Modern AU; Clarke is Octavia's summer BFF.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, look, it's a different thing! I asked for song lyrics as prompts for this one, so that's what's happening here.

Bellamy Blake meets Clarke Griffin when he's seventeen and she's twelve. The first time, she's with her dad, at the store where he works, buying boogie boards, so he doesn't get her name, but she sticks in his memory the way customers sometimes do, because she's laughing and arguing with her father, and she's got this one-piece bathing suit with a starfish on the front, even though she is clearly too old for animal-themed bathing suits. It's kind of funny.

The next day, she's hanging out with Octavia, which is how he learns her name, her age, where she's from (New York), how long she's at Myrtle Beach (a month), and that she does own age-appropriate bathing suits (a two-piece, like Octavia's, swirled blue and green). He doesn't really know how the two of them became friends, but Octavia knows how to become friends with people in a way Bellamy doesn't, can just strike up conversations over nothing. If Bellamy has a purpose, he's great at talking to people, but left to his own devices, he tends to be more of a loner.

Clarke becomes a casual fixture in his life for the next month. Her parents are both working a lot, even though they're on vacation; Bellamy half-listens when she and Octavia talk about it. It strikes him as mostly dumb, rich-person stuff--why would you be the CEO of a company if you couldn't take a month off to hang out with your kid?--but he likes Clarke even though she's a rich tourist. She's smart and stubborn, a great match for Octavia, and never pretends not to know him when she runs into him at work, like some of Octavia's summer friends have in the past. She introduces him to her father, who thanks him for looking after her, and chats easily with him even when Octavia isn't around.

He's even a little sad when she leaves, but she's back the next summer, and the next, and the next, and she doesn't forget about Octavia, or about him. As soon as she gets back to the beach, she's on their couch or at the store, hanging out, laughing with Octavia and asking him about school, all friendly, genuine interest. She's a bit of a late bloomer, which is really just as well, because when she shows up at sixteen, nearly spilling out of her bikini (last year's bikini, he's pretty sure, and is she aware that she has breasts now, seriously?), he's glad this is his last year living at home for the summer. Because, honestly, he can deal with Clarke Griffin, his sister's summer BFF, but he can't really deal with Clarke Griffin, his sister's summer BFF who is _really fucking hot_. He spends that whole month trying not to check her out, which is tough, because he still likes her, still likes chatting with her and cracking jokes, but now he's also aware that she's gorgeous. And underage. And her parents could definitely get him put in jail.

That summer is the first time he's relieved when she leaves at the start of August.

He graduates from college the year after that and gets a real job, in New York. Octavia sends a selfie of her and Clarke the first week of July, pouting outside the store where he used to work, with the caption, _we miss u big bro!!!_

He saves it and responds, _Tell Clarke to put on sunscreen, she's getting burned_.

*

His roommate, Wick, drags him to Coney Island because this girl he's into is going with her friends and invited him, and he's worried if he shows up alone, he will be creepy.

"Aren't you worried she's going to see me and realize how much hotter I am than you are?" he asks. He hates Coney Island. It reminds him of home enough to make him homesick, but also make him generally bitter and annoyed about tourists and beaches and, well, everything.

Octavia tells him that he's twenty-eight going on seventy, which he has to admit might be accurate. If he had a lawn, he would tell kids to get off it all the time.

"Just leave your shirt on, okay?" says Wick. "And keep making that face. As long as you're wearing a shirt and scowling, I feel like she's not going to realize you're way hotter than I am."

"I don't think you thought this plan through. Also, why do you even want to date someone who goes to Coney Island?"

"Fuck you, she's amazing. We're going to argue about roller coaster design and get married."

"You've got your life figured out."

"Right? Now shut up, that's her." He waves to a truly gorgeous Latina girl who waves back, smiling. Bellamy sticks his hands in his pockets and doesn't glare, but also doesn't put any effort into not looking incredibly surly. His best wingman move is being generally irritable and occasionally going off on rants about historical inaccuracies in Oscar-winning movies. It really works to make his friends look more appealing by comparison. 

"Hey, Wick," says the girl, cheerful. Bellamy knows she's some kind of actual rocket scientist, and Wick is gone on her. He can't blame Wick. "Hey, Wick's friend."

"Hi, Raven. This is--"

"Bellamy!"

Bellamy turns to the rest of the group, and there's Clarke Griffin, looking very much like he remembers her, bright smile and curly blonde hair, sparkling eyes, distressingly perfect breasts. His mouth goes a little dry, but he's spared from responding because she throws herself into his arms, and he catches her and hugs back without thinking about him. Wick is staring at him, somewhat agog, and Bellamy gives him a shit-eating grin. He's hugging a hot girl. He's winning Coney Island.

"I guess that's Bellamy," says Raven, but Clarke slides out of his arms and grins up at him, and Bellamy has trouble paying attention to much of anything else. He knows she kept going back to the beach for the last few years, and she and Octavia are in Facebook contact. He even knew she was in New York still, but New York is a big place. He wasn't expecting to run into her.

"Hey, Clarke," he says, a genuine smile tugging at his lips. "Long time no see."

"I forgot you were in New York," she says. "I kept meaning to ask Octavia for your address, but I figured--" She flushes a little, and Bellamy remembers years of sunburns because she sucks at remembering sunscreen. "I didn't really think you'd want to hang out."

"Well, that was totally wrong," he says, grinning. "Are you wearing sunscreen?"

"Oh my god, yes, shut the fuck up, Bellamy."

"Just checking." He looks around and sees the rest of the group has actually wandered off and left them, and he rolls his eyes. "Nice friends."

"They are all assholes," Clarke says fondly. She loops her arm in his, and his stomach flips over. "Come on."

"So, you guys know each other," says Raven, when they catch up. She and Wick did actually seem to be arguing about roller coaster design, which--it takes all kinds, Bellamy guesses. That probably is Wick's type.

"My parents have a beach house in South Carolina because they are the most stereotypical rich people of all time," says Clarke. "Bellamy's sister was my summer BFF."

"And Bellamy was your beach crush?" Raven supplies.

"Obviously," says Clarke, easy, and it's Bellamy's turn to flush. She doesn't sound serious, really, but--she also doesn't exactly sound like she's joking. "How's your sister doing, anyway?" she continues. "I haven't talked to her recently, but--she moved somewhere awesome, right?"

"Paris," says Bellamy, pride warring with irritation in his voice. She's doing fashion design, she's amazing, he's so happy for her, but--it's so _far_. "Dating some photographer who's way too old for her, not listening to a thing I say."

"So, same old Octavia."

"Same old Octavia." He glances at her and looks away, not sure what to say. She's just like he remembered, bright and sharp, and he can't quite look at her.

He wonders how long he was a little bit in love with Clarke Griffin, without even noticing. He kind of misses that now, because noticing is so much worse.

"What about you?" he asks. "What are you up to?"

"I'm at NYU, getting my PhD in Global Public Health."

"Holy shit," he says, and she laughs.

"I know it sounds kind of boring, but--"

"No, it sounds amazing. That's fucking badass."

She grins. "What about you? Octavia said publishing, right?"

"Yeah, I edit textbooks. _That_ sounds boring."

"It sounds perfect for you," she says. "You always were a stealth nerd."

He laughs. "Thanks. I missed you too."

She bumps her shoulder against his. "I did, though. Miss you."

"Yeah," he says, swallowing past a lump in his throat. "I did too."

*

Bellamy gets Clarke's number, and Wick manages to actually ask Raven out on a date, and suddenly Clarke Griffin is a part of his life again, hanging out at his apartment for game nights, texting him about this guy in her program she wants to strangle with his necktie ( _he wears a necktie to class EVERY DAY bellamy who does he think he is i'm lucky if I put on non-pajama pants_ ), just being generally beautiful and flawless and somehow the incarnation of all his best childhood memories, of long nights on the beach and afternoons in the sun, the smell of sea salt and the feel of wind tangling his hair.

She invites both him and Wick down to Myrtle Beach at the end of the summer, late August, to spend a week or whatever portion of a week they can take off work at her parents' beach house with the rest of her friends. Bellamy never takes time off, to the extent that he's pretty sure his boss actually worries about him, so he takes the full week and drives down with Clarke, who hates flying because it always made her parents argue. They do the entire trip in one day, switching off every few hours, listening to Clarke's horrific summertime mix, which includes multiple songs from High School Musical, because she's the worst.

"Yeah, but you know they're from High School Musical," she points out. "So who's really the loser here?"

"Octavia loved those, and you know it," he grumbles. "And it's your mix."

She pats him on the leg. "Sucks to be you."

Between breaks and food, it takes them more than twelve hours to get there, and it's ten o'clock when they pull into her parents' place. Weirdly, it's the first time he's been to the house itself; Clarke never spent much time there, when they were kids. It's huge, as he expected, and has the same unlived-in feel as all the beach houses, left empty for so much of the year.

"Thanks for driving down with me," she says. "It must be weird being back."

"Yeah, a little." He hasn't been back since his mother died two years ago, and everything feels like he outgrew it.

Everything but Clarke.

She stretches and cracks her back, throws her bag into a room and then disappears for a while. Bellamy puts his own things in the living room, feeling awkward until she reappears with a bottle of tequila.

"Secret stashes, still secret."

He snorts. "How old were you last time you were here?"

"Old enough I needed to drink," she says. "Come on, let's go to the beach."

"It's ten o'clock at night."

"Weirdly, the beach is still there."

He follows her down, and they trade swigs of tequila and walk barefoot. The moon is huge, not quite full, and he can see so fucking many stars. It feels like the entire universe is there.

"I bought the tequila because you were gone," says Clarke, startling him out of silence. "Which is--fucking stupid, I know. It's not like we were ever really friends. But it didn't feel the same without you around. Octavia's awesome, I love Octavia, but you were always kind of the beach for me, you know? Always so--" She grins. "Warm skin and huge smile and you know I had this huge fucking thing for you, right? You were always wandering around with no shirt on and smirking at me."

"I didn't, actually," he says, taking a drink from the tequila. "But I do know I thought I was going to die that last summer because you suddenly got fucking hot and I couldn't stop staring at your chest."

She laughs, bright and clear. "Yeah?"

"In my defense, have you seen your chest?"

"Have you seen yours?"

"So we're both shallow, awesome."

Her hand curls into his hair and she tugs him down, tasting like tequila and sunshine, even though it's dark out, and Bellamy's hands bunch in the fabric of her tank top as he kisses her back.

She picks up his bag on their way through the living room and puts it down firmly on her floor.

"You're not getting your own bed," she informs him, and he laughs.

"So where am I gonna sleep?" he teases.

She grins. "Trust me, you're not going to get much sleep either."

In the morning, there's light streaming in the window, catching Clarke's hair and lighting it up all golden on her bare shoulders, and Bellamy thinks, yeah, this is what summer is all about.


	15. " 'Cause tramps like us, baby we were born to run"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Modern AU, Clarke leaving her own wedding. With Bellamy, obv.

"So, you know, I broadly agree with your decision here, but I think the execution is a little lacking."

Clarke has to smile, because it's Bellamy, of course it's Bellamy, sitting down on the swing next to hers, still dressed in his nicest suit.

"Yeah?" she asks.

"Full points for changing out of the dress, but I probably wouldn't have put it on in the first place."

Clarke pushes off, starts herself swinging slowly. "I didn't, actually," she says. "I was staring at it, and thinking about--everything, you know? About Finn, and Raven, and the rest of my life, and I just couldn't. It felt like such a lie."

"Well, lots of brides wear white even when--"

She shoves at him, laughing, and he laughs too, grinning at her. He doesn't look even slightly angry that she made him get all dressed up for her wedding and then bailed on it.

She knew plenty of people were going to be mad at her about this, furious, even, but she was pretty sure her best friend wouldn't be one of them.

"I also would have gone a little farther from the church when I ran," he says. "You weren't hard to find."

"For you," she points out. "No one else knows about this place."

"So, you wanted me to find you, huh?"

"My mom drove me over, so--I don't actually have a car."

"You really could have done better with this escape plan."

"I'm not a criminal mastermind, sorry."

"Don't sell yourself short. You can be anything if you apply yourself."

She snorts. "Thanks, Bell. So, you here to be my getaway driver?"

"If that's what you need. You know me. Always here to help." He offers her a smile. "You know I completely support you not marrying Finn, but--this isn't just cold feet, right? You're sure?"

"I'm sure." She rubs her face, trying not to cry. It's not throwing away the last three years of her life, because she's done plenty of other great stuff, finishing grad school, getting an awesome job, but--it still feels like she failed in all kinds of ways. Finn was a waste, and she knew he was a waste, and she still was going to go through with this because he liked her, and her mother was so excited, and so many people thought she should forgive him that she started doubting he did anything really wrong. "Can we leave?"

Bellamy looks at her for a long minute, and then stands, offers his hand. It's warm and rough, familiarity and comfort and love all at once. "Yeah, let's go."

*

Clarke met Finn Collins at one of her mother's fundraisers, and he made her laugh, which was nice, because she usually spent those events texting Bellamy with guesses at how expensive all of the things she was eating were, and sending him pictures of ridiculous hats. Which was fun, admittedly, but having a real person to talk to was better. And Finn was charming and attractive, so when he asked her if she wanted to get dinner sometime, it was easy to say yes.

She found out about Raven a few months after they got engaged, the ex whose status as an ex was more ambiguous than she really felt comfortable with. His excuses about the whole thing always ran false, and they always twisted up Clarke's stomach when she thought about them. She was an old friend, it didn't mean anything, it was just sex, it was one time, it was a mistake, but Clarke had seen Raven's face, knew it wasn't true, or not the whole truth. But her parents loved Finn, and he fit so neatly into the parts of her life she didn't, the galas and charity events. She felt like she could handle those, with Finn at her side, and it felt worth it.

She does start to cry in Bellamy's car, and hates herself for letting it go with long.

Bellamy puts his hand on her back, rubbing gently, just for a minute, and then starts to drive.

"I figure you're more interested in distance than comfort right now," he says, soft.

"Yeah."

"Where am I going?"

"West."

"Any particular reason?"

"Canada is north and the ocean is east. South is conservative."

"I think we'd have to drive for a while to hit anything really conservative," he says, sounding amused.

"We might have to drive for a while," she admits, wiping her face on her sleeve.

He looks at her, frowning. "Clarke."

"What?"

"He's not worth crying over."

"I was going to marry him."

"Well, he wasn't worth marrying either."

She smiles; the one time she asked Bellamy, he told her she shouldn't marry him. That Finn seemed like a nice enough guy, but it wasn't a good idea, to be involved with someone who treated other people like he'd treated Raven. "But it's your call," he said, shrugging, and Clarke loved him for it, for never telling her what to do, even as she wished he'd given her another reason not to marry Finn. The one only he could give her.

"I'm not crying about him," she says. "Not really. Just--god, I do everything the stupidest way, you know?"

"Not everything," he says, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel. "It's pretty much restricted to your love life. You're good at other stuff."

"Thanks."

"Just saying." He reaches over and squeezes her hand. "I get it, okay? You were already engaged when you found out about Raven, he said all the right things, and your mom was really gung-ho about the whole thing." He sighs. "He's exactly who she always wanted you to marry."

There's something strange in his voice, and Clarke looks over at him. His eyes are on the road, though, and he won't look at her. "Well, I never did anything else she wanted. I didn't know why I thought I should start with Finn."

He snorts. "I wasn't gonna say it, but yeah."

He's still holding her hand, and she doesn't let go of him.

There was another reason she felt bad, agreeing to marry him in the first place. But it was nice, having someone who loved her back.

Of course, Bellamy does love her. He loves her more than anyone. And she's going to learn how to accept that as enough, because--it is, really. It's got to be. 

*

Clarke left her phone in the church, mostly out of cowardice, and Bellamy's is turned off, also out of cowardice. He turns it back on around two to use the GPS, and they find he's missed about a billion calls and texts, all of which he ignores. But it's only a few minutes after they switch it back on that it starts blasting Octavia's ringtone.

Clarke raises her eyebrows at him. "You want me to get it?" she asks.

"She'll find me and murder me if I don't. Honestly, I'm surprised she didn't already find me and murder me."

Clarke clicks it onto speaker phone, and Octavia yells, "Bellamy Asimov Blake, did you _steal Clarke from her wedding_?"

"Hi, Octavia," says Clarke, sheepish.

"Oh my god, you did." She lets out a sigh. "I thought you just, like, decided you couldn't witness her marrying someone else after all and left to drink your broken heart away, but then I find out Clarke is _also gone_ and--"

Bellamy's neck is red, and Clarke is kind of transfixed. "She's the one who took off, O," he says, not looking at her.

There's a pause. "Really?"

"Sorry," says Clarke. "You know me, always making a scene." She rubs her face. "It's chaos over there, right?"

"No, everyone figured it out pretty fast. Well, assuming you two are actually eloping, because that's the leading theory right now. It's the ruined wedding equivalent of _I'm not mad, just disappointed_."

"Huh," says Clarke, carefully. "I don't think we're eloping. We haven't really figured out where we're going yet."

"Yeah, but I'm getting hungry, I think we need to stop for food."

There's a long pause from Octavia. "What the hell, guys, seriously."

"I couldn't marry him," Clarke says. "Tell my mom I'm sorry?"

"Oh, like hell I will, I got away from there as soon as I could. I wasn't going to deal with being the go-to source on why Bell disappeared with you."

"Yeah, fair enough." She glances over at Bellamy again. He's still red. "Thanks for the update."

"Where are you guys?"

"About to get lunch," Bellamy says. "Talk to you later, O."

"You're not allowed to elope!" she says. "I'm going to be at your wedding, Bell. You cannot get married without me."

"Please hang up before she talks more," Bellamy mutters, rubbing his face, and Clarke smiles.

"Bye, Octavia."

They're quiet for a few minutes as Clarke gets google maps going, and then looks around for food. They're somewhere in western Massachusetts, and it's all rest stops or non-chains, which are risky.

Bellamy takes _just drive west_ very seriously, as an instruction.

"How did you know I was gone so soon?" she asks, finally. "You weren't even going in the wedding party. You didn't have to be there for hours."

"I came to find you," he admits. "To, uh. To tell you not to marry Finn."

"Yeah?"

He glances behind his shoulder, checking his blind spot, and gets into an exit lane. He doesn't speak again until they're stopped in a Friendly's parking lot, which was not where she imagined having any important life conversations. "I should have said something sooner, but--I figured if you were interested in me, you wouldn't be marrying him in the first place." He looks down. "I just--turns out I couldn't just not say anything. I really needed you to know. Sorry, I know my timing sucks."

"It's probably better if you do it after I already decided not to marry him," she says, and finds his hand again. "I really do suck at relationships."

"You do."

"If I'd thought you were interested, I wouldn't have said yes when he asked me out in the first place."

He looks up at that, genuinely startled, and it's unreal to Clarke, that he had _no idea_. She was so unsubtle in her flirting with him in college that her mother gave her a talking to about why he was absolutely not someone she could ever be with. Which she had ignored. But Bellamy had never responded at all, or never enough. He'd put his arm around her and tell her he loved her and get her hopes up, but it never went past that. He's such a natural big brother, it's possible he doesn't know how to turn it off.

"Fuck," he says, laughing. "Really?"

"Really." She smiles. "That's part of why I couldn't get married."

"Okay," says Bellamy. He looks back at her again, grinning like he doesn't quite know he's doing it, like an involuntary reaction. "So, I'll buy you lunch. First date, right?"

"At Friendly's?"

"I'll spring for a sundae and everything."

"Well, if I get a sundae."

They get a booth and don't really talk about it, the two of them or the wedding or anything important, but Bellamy keeps touching her, absent, reminding himself she's there with his hand against her or the brush of his foot under the table, and Clarke feels like a different person. When she woke up, this was her wedding day, and now she's at a Friendly's in the middle of nowhere with Bellamy Blake. It still feels like the happiest day of her life, but not for any of the reasons it's supposed to.

After lunch, they get back in the car. "East or west?" Bellamy asks.

Clarke puts her feet up on the dashboard. "West," she says. "I could use a couple days off, how about you?"

He snorts. "You know you're going to have to deal with this at some point, right?"

"I know. But--I missed you, okay? It's been rough, since--"

"You got engaged to someone else and we were both idiots?"

"Exactly. So let's just take a few days."

He starts the car and takes them back toward the turnpike. "I guess I don't have work until Monday. But I am going to use you as a human shield when we get back."

"Well, of course," she says, finding her sunglasses in the glove compartment. They've been weird for a while, but he still keeps her sunglasses in his glove compartment, and he's definitely in love with her. They're going to work it out. "What are girlfriends for?"

He grins and takes them west.

*

The next time she gets married, Clarke makes it to the altar.

"Oh good," says Bellamy, low. "I was worried I'd just find you hiding in my car after."

"God, you run away from your own wedding _one time_ \--"

The priest hushes them, and they grin at each other, stupid and in love, and let him get on with ceremony.


	16. "Is it desire, or is it love that I'm feeling for you?"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> College AU with TA!Bellamy and bad at feelings!Clarke.

It's really not a big deal or anything.

It's natural, honestly. Clarke has been busy lately, and single for a while, and between school and work and her final art project, she's barely had time to think, let alone get laid.

So it is 100% perfectly logical, reasonable, and natural that she has a sex dream about Bellamy Blake. Bellamy is, after all, fairly attractive and around all the time, between TAing her art history class and working at her favorite coffee shop while also getting his PhD and doing all his studying at exactly the same time she's at the library, somehow.

"It's probably because we have the same schedule," he remarked, the third time they ran into each other there. "I'm always at your class, you always come to my office hours. Clearly, we have the same open block for going to the library."

"Clearly," she said, and they started sitting together because why wouldn't they? They're on mostly friendly terms, except for some fairly horrific arguments about grades once or twice, but those were resolved, and anyway, she likes that he's opinionated and smart. All her favorite people are opinionated and smart.

So, yeah, sex dreams? Totally logical. It would be weirder if she didn't have a sex dream about him.

Definitely.

"Is he the one with the curly black hair?" Raven asks, when she mentions it. "You were having lunch with him last week and I mouthed _damn_ and you wouldn't let me sit with you guys?"

"Yeah, that's him."

"Shit, I'm surprised I'm not having sex dreams about him," she says.

"Right?"

"You should really hit that."

"He's my TA. I'm pretty sure that's frowned upon, if not actively forbidden."

"Which makes it hotter. Did that feature in the sex dream?"

"No," says Clarke, trying not to blush. It was a really good dream. Which is nice, honestly; she might not have a real sex life, but her subconscious is supplying her with a fake one. "It was pretty standard," she says, and she really believes that's true, aside from how hot it was. "Nothing fancy."

Then she sees Bellamy at the coffee shop and has a vivid memory of what her brain thinks he looks like naked, and she turns so red that she almost leaves without getting anything. But she needs the caffeine, and it's not like being somewhat attracted to him is anything new. It's just slightly stronger and more graphic now.

"Hey, Clarke," he says, flashing her a smile. His hand is on the counter, and she can't help thinking about how it would feel against her skin.

She does not blush. At all. It takes effort, but she doesn't. "Hey."

"Usual?"

"That would be great, yeah."

"How's it going?" he asks, getting started on her drink. She tries not to watch his arms as he works the machine to steam the milk, but that one she totally fails at. "Ready for the test tomorrow?"

"Born ready," she says, and, really, _what_?

"Congratulations on being the first infant born with detailed knowledge about classical architecture," he says, amused.

"Everyone has at least one weird superpower, right? That's mine."

He slides her drink to her. It's dead in the shop, and under normal circumstances, she'd hang out and chat. She _likes_ Bellamy, she does. They're not all the way to being friends, but they were getting close. He's gruff and kind of anti-social, but funny and smart and surprisingly thoughtful, when he likes you. And he seems to like Clarke all right. She looks forward to spending time with him, really.

And then she realizes the real problem with the sex dream. It's not, in fact, that she had a sex dream about Bellamy. She's had a lot of weird sex dreams, and she's never become suddenly unable to look at Raven or Wells or her high-school English teacher ever again. She just chalked it up to weird sex dreams and moved on.

"Fuck," she says.

"Not as prepared as you thought?" Bellamy asks, amused.

"Oh, no, I just--I forgot I'm supposed to meet my professor to talk about my senior project," she says, flashing him a smile. "Don't want to be late."

"Cool, see you tomorrow," he says, flashing her a smile, and, yes.

She's into Bellamy. Like, _into him_. Like--

Fuck.

*

"I want to date my TA," she tells Raven. "Which is so, so much worse than wanting to fuck him. I _like him_. I want to hold hands and play footsie and make out on his couch. Fuck. Why did I have to _notice_?"

Raven snorts. "So, ask him out."

"Again, forbidden."

"It's finals in, what, four weeks? And you've already got a job lined up after, so you're going to be in town anyway. And you said he's in the PhD program, right? And you've got, like, a triple A plus in his class. You're both about to be consenting adults who live in the same place and have similar interests. I think that's about as non-creepy as you can be."

"Not mentioning it would be maximally non-creepy. Besides, he's like--I don't know. Twenty-five to thirty? Somewhere in there. He's probably already dating someone. He might be married."

"So he'll say no."

Clarke glares at her. "You are actually terrible at girl talk, you know?"

"Sorry for being realistic and practical," says Raven.

"Have you asked that guy from your physics class out yet?"

"Nope, just continuing on booty calls and playing video games naked afterward. Why would I screw that up?" She grins. "See, I'm awesome. You should listen to me. I have this relationship thing all figured out."

"You might," Clarke admits, grudging.

Raven pats her on the shoulder. "It's okay. You've got other talents."

*

Bellamy shows up at their usual library time, sits down across from her, and gives her a coffee.

"What's this for?"

"So you don't fall asleep in your books," he says, shrugging like it's no big deal. He takes a sip from his own cup and pulls out his laptop, settling in to work. Clarke tries not to look at him, but her gaze keeps catching on the way he bites his lip when he's thinking, and the curve of his smile when he's making a point he likes. She had sort of been hoping she was wrong about the whole thing, that it was just a bunch of leftover lust from what's honestly the closest she's come to getting laid in the last six months, but, nope.

He's really cute, and really hot, and she wants to drag him into one of the study carrels, fuck him, and then go home with him and cuddle.

"Are you doing anything exciting this summer?" she asks, and nearly kicks herself. It's a stupid, pointless question.

"Huh?" he asks, looking up. He's got a pen in his mouth, which really draws the eye down there. She hates everything. "Oh, uh, not really. Got a research position with Professor Kane, so just bumming around on campus. My sister's going to be here most of the time, that'll be cool."

"How old is your sister?"

"Twenty-one. She's a junior at Oberlin."

"Cool."

"What about you?"

"I've got a job lined up after graduation, I'm going to be doing graphic design for Arc Industries."

"Oh, awesome! That's really great."

"Yeah. I've got a couple weeks to kick around and get settled into my new apartment after graduation, and then I start mid-June."

He nods. "Cool." They lapse back into silence for a few minutes, and then he says, "Was there a reason you were asking?"

She takes a sip of her coffee, mostly as a stall tactic, and he grins and nudges her under the table, which feels way too much like footsie for her.

"You totally want to hang out," he says.

"I've gotten kind of used to you," she replies, going for kind of haughty, but he doesn't seem to buy it at all.

"I'll still be at the coffee shop my usual days," he says. "And, you know, I have a cell phone. I'm not hard to reach."

So they end up exchanging numbers and becoming Facebook friends, and Clarke spends an embarrassing amount of time checking to see what personal information he has (pretty much nothing) and creeping on his pictures (the only girl who shows up with any regularity is tagged as Octavia Blake, a student at Oberlin, so that's got to be his sister, and the pictures of him with guys look pretty platonic, no obvious _here is my significant other we love taking selfies together_ ).

Then she feels pathetic, goes to sleep, and has a dream that involves snuggling and kissing and being incredibly sappy, and everything is pretty much fucking _terrible_.

*

Two weeks later, when she has mostly regained her equilibrium, despite wanting to jump his bones and then cuddle with him and hold hands and talk about history, he texts _did you know I am not involved at all in grading your final?_

She frowns at the phone. _Why on earth would I know that?_

_okay, good point, there is no reason. but I'm not_

_Congratulations._

He doesn't reply for about twenty minutes, and she sort of figures the conversation is over, but then he adds, _basically, that means that now that I have finished grading your paper, I will never grade anything of yours ever again_

_I'm glad our long national nightmare is over. It must have been tough for you._

_it was, it really was_

She has no idea how to respond to that, and she finally settles on, _Well, I still have a bunch of other shit to do, so I can't be excited about your reduced workload until at least Friday. But pretend I'm being happy for you._

_I'll try_ , he says, and then, _so does that mean you're free on Friday? to be excited about my reduced workload_

_Are you having a party?_

She's halfway absorbed in her reading again when her phone actually _rings_ , and she glances down at it to see it's Bellamy. Calling her. She nearly lets it go to voicemail because she's too confused to answer it, but she gets it at the last minute.

"Bellamy?"

"I honestly cannot tell if you're fucking with me or not," he says, sounding kind of amused. "Sorry, I'm trying not to be inappropriate here, but--seriously."

"I don't think I'm fucking with you," she says, amused in spite of herself. "How would I be fucking with you, exactly?"

"As of about half an hour ago, I have zero conflicts of interest," he says. "With taking you out. On a date. Are you actually free on Friday or was that just--"

She drops the phone and has to scramble to get it back. "How was that me fucking with you? How was I supposed to know you wanted to ask me out?"

"Uh, I flirt with you all the time, I give you free coffee, I've been kind of inappropriately stalking you at the library. I thought it was kind of obvious. I guess I'm glad it wasn't, it was, you know. Inappropriate." He laughs softly. "This is the worst phone call of all time, jesus. Sorry. You asked about my summer plans, I kind of thought you were, uh--"

"No, I am, I totally am," Clarke says. "Well, assuming you were going to say interested."

"I was going to say aware."

"Oh, then yeah, no, I was totally unaware. I've been kind of hyper-focused on my work, I barely even figured out I was into you. It took me, like, months to notice."

He laughs, sounding relieved. "Okay, awesome. Glad this isn't going quite as badly as I thought."

"It's pretty bad, but that's mostly my fault." She flops back on her bed, grinning. "So, Friday. I'm free on Friday."

"Cool," he says. "It's a date."

*

It isn't until the third date that he talks her out of the whole story, which is incredibly embarrassing, but he pokes and prods and teases and she's kind of stupidly fond of him, so she owns up about the sex dream, and the awkwardness, and her total failure to recognize and deal with feelings, and he laughs, kisses her, and insists on finding out exactly what happened in the dream, so he can recreate it.

"Just to see if it's actually good, you know. In person."

"That does sound like important research."

"Very important," he agrees.

It's better in person, as it turns out. Clarke tries not to think too hard about why, because it's pretty sure it will be sappy and embarrassing and terrible, but when she gets back to her room, Raven sing-songs, "Clarke's in looooooooove," and, yeah. She's pretty sure that's why.

It's definitely sappy and embarrassing, but not nearly as terrible as she thought it would be.


	17. "Gonna wear that dress you like, skin-tight Do my hair up real, real nice And syncopate my skin to your heart beating."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Modern AU, friends with benefits.

The first time Bellamy sees Clarke wearing what he will come to think of as The Dress is Octavia’s fancy graduation party. Octavia insists on it being fancy--“Like, really fancy, Bell. You’re wearing a tie. Maybe two ties.”--because she only graduates once and she’s a classy person, and Clarke spends about a week complaining about it.

“I don’t even have a fancy dress.”

“You have an entire closet full of fancy dresses.”

“Yeah, but at home. And those are, like, rich-person fancy dresses.”

“Are you saying they’re too fancy for us?”

“No, I meant--they’re for weird charity galas. They’re not fun fancy dresses, they’re republican wife garden party dresses.”

Bellamy snorts. “You know a lot more about this than I do,” he tells her. “I didn’t even know that was a genre of fancy dress.”

“I’m educational,” she agrees. “Whatever, I’ll just make Raven take me shopping. She’s secretly great at fashion.”

Bellamy’s only ever seen Raven dressed in oil-stained t-shirts and ratty jeans, but Clarke knows Raven better than he does, and he guesses if she dressed nicely all the time it wouldn’t be a secret, so he says, “Good plan,” and goes back to his book without giving it another thought.

He’s Clarke’s ride to Octavia’s party, so he’s the first one who sees her that night, at his door, in The Dress. It’s sky blue and form-fitting, showing off miles and miles of golden skin, legs and shoulders and breasts and--

“Okay, yeah, no,” he says, fingers tripping and failing as they try to get his tie done. “How long before we have to leave?”

She looks amused. “Like--an hour, I guess?”

“Great,” he says, and hauls her in for a kiss.

“Don’t mess up my hair,” she says, but that’s her only objection, and he gets her off against the front door of his apartment in record time.

“So, you like the dress,” she says, smug.

“Shut up.”

*

Bellamy and Clarke aren’t a thing, not really. They’re friends, best friends, in-sync on a level Bellamy has never experienced with anyone else. She’s his favorite person he isn’t related to. He loves her unconditionally, and they occasionally have sex, when they’re both single and feel like it.

Octavia has never been impressed with this arrangement.

“I’m just saying, if she asked you to marry her tomorrow, you’d just ask her what time she wanted you at the church,” she said once.

“Yeah,” he’d replied, shrugging. “But she hasn’t asked.”

*

The next time Clarke wears The Dress, it’s Miller and Monty’s wedding, and she has a girlfriend, which is deeply unfair. Not that he objects, generally, to Clarke having girlfriends, or boyfriends. It’s just that Clarke has terrible taste in both. Octavia’s tried to argue that Bellamy is biased, but it hasn’t worked, because he’s right. If Clarke found someone good for her, he’d be happy.

Probably.

Anyway, he can’t be sure, because she has never dated anyone who wasn’t terrible, as a significant other. There was Finn, who was not a bad guy, but got really fucking weird when he found out Clarke and Bellamy had slept together, which was sort of fair (extremely fair, according to Octavia, but, well, Octavia), but then it turned out it was more of a “cheaters always think everyone else is cheating,” situation, and Bellamy would have punched him in the mouth if Clarke hadn’t done it herself first.

Then there was Anya, who didn’t like public displays of affection, which was her thing, whatever, except that her definition of public displays of affection included talking to Clarke outside of Clarke’s apartment, and Myles, who was the most vapid person Bellamy had ever met, and Sterling, who, okay, there wasn’t anything wrong with Sterling, there just wasn’t anything right, either. Sterling was so dull as to barely exist.

The current one is Lexa, who’s kind of angry and terrifying and a little too cold for Bellamy’s taste. Clarke seems convinced that she should be with people who are kind of haughty and above-it-all, and Bellamy can’t figure out why. Clarke is pretty much the most badass person he knows, and he doesn’t know if she thinks holding hands in public will ruin her rep or what, but she’s secretly like a cat with affection, and she needs someone who will encourage that, in his opinion.

But, really, the problem with Clarke having a girlfriend is that she’s wearing The Dress, and Bellamy can’t check her out when she’s wearing The Dress if she has a girlfriend, so he has to pretend he’s not. It’s a pain.

About halfway through the reception, she plops down next to him and drains his champagne.

“Hi to you too,” he says, dryly. From this angle, he could see directly down her dress, but he’s not going to. She’s got a girlfriend.

But then she says, “Lexa and I broke up,” so he maybe could check her out, but he’s distracted from how good she looks with concern.

“Shit. When?”

“About twenty minutes ago,” she says. He puts his arm around her and she leans against him, grateful, lapping up the comfort like warm milk.

(Bellamy might think he bears more than a passing resemblance to the kind of person she should date, but that’s just because he’s seen her fail at so many relationships, he knows where they tend to go wrong. He could do better.)

“What happened?”

“Argument about whether or not marriage is worth doing in the first place and gay rights and then we got into a side argument about you and she was kind of gross about bisexuality and then, you know. She stormed out and I cried in the bathroom for a while.”

He kisses her hair. “Well, she sucked.”

“Thanks.”

“You want to come say hi to Miller’s grandmother with me? She thinks I’m her dead husband. It’s creepy for me and hilarious for everyone else.”

“My favorite combination,” she says, with a small smile, and slips her hand into his as they walk.

*

The third time he sees The Dress, they’re at one of her mother’s hospital galas. Despite his lack of expertise on fancy clothing, he does kind of get her point about how this dress is different from her standard fancy party wear. Mostly, she looks amazing, and everyone else is jealous. Which they should be.

“I should wear actual hot clothes to these things all the time,” Clarke says, snagging drinks for them from a passing waiter. “It’s so much better.”

“No argument here.”

“Thanks for coming.”

“I love these,” he says, and means it. Clarke loathes them, but he has a soft spot for all her mother’s weird parties, because that’s how the two of them started their whole friends-with-benefits thing, and while that is, occasionally, more frustrating than good, he mostly can’t complain. “I feel like an awesome prostitute.”

She snorts. “I’m the one giving you sex in exchange for you being arm candy,” she points out. “Doesn’t that make me the prostitute here?”

He puts his arm around her and squeezes. “Okay, fine. We can both be prostitutes.”

*

The first time she asked him to one of the benefits, right after they graduated from college, he flatly refused to go, because it sounded awful.

“Come on, Bellamy, I’ll do anything!”

“I would need, like, the best blowjob in the world for this,” he mused. “That is the only thing that could possibly make it worth it.”

He’d meant it as their standard, slightly flirty banter, never expected her to take him up on it, but she just said, “I can probably handle that,” got down on her knees, and did it.

Afterward her hauled her up and kissed her, thought this was finally it, but once he pulled back, she grinned and said, “So, you’re going to come with me, right?” and he figured that, okay, he was going to get laid sometimes, and that was it.

It’s not bad, really. It’s not everything, but--his life is pretty great, most of the time. He can do without this one thing, when he gets everything else.

*

The fourth time, it’s a Sunday morning, three weeks after he broke up with his kind-of girlfriend, Roma, who was pretty cool, overall, but, well. He doesn’t do well in relationships. He knows why, and he should probably stop trying.

He’s wearing his pajamas and eating Frosted Mini Wheats directly from the box while he watches Simpsons reruns, which means he is about as unprepared for Clarke, dressed to the nines, with her hair and makeup done, as it is possible for him to be.

“Uh, hi,” he says, rubbing his face. He’s got stubble all over his chin and he hasn’t showered yet. He is not really at his best, which usually wouldn’t bother him; Clarke’s seen him looking much worse. But she looks unbelievable, and he is a gross mess. “Am I supposed to be taking you somewhere today? Sorry, I totally forgot, I’ll--”

“No,” she says, and pushes him inside. She shuts the door behind them and glares at him, like he has personally offended her.

“I can go get dressed,” he offers, confused.

“No.” Her scowl deepens, and he thinks this might be how he dies. He kind of wishes he knew why he was dying, but he assumes he deserves it.

“Clarke--”

“I’m in love with you,” she says, like a challenge. When he just stares, she finally wilts, just a little, fight going out of her. “I figured--you like the dress. It might--help. With the whole confession thing.”

“I do like the dress,” he says. He reaches up to touch her cheek, mostly because he needs to assure himself she’s really there. She’s warm and trembling a little under his hand, which is almost inconceivable. Clarke Griffin is confessing her love to him, and she’s nervous. “But you really don’t need any help, Clarke.”

And then he kisses her, tangling his hand in her hair and totally ruining it. He’s kissed her before, a lot, but not nearly as much as he wanted to. And she loves him. Or, rather, she’s in love with him, which is much more newsworthy. He’s always known she loves him; that’s not a revelation.

“I feel kind of underdressed now,” he remarks, kissing her neck, running his mouth over all that skin. He does love The Dress.

“You could be way more underdressed,” she says, but catches him before he can kiss her again. “Bellamy.”

“Yeah?”

“Please say it.”

“Oh,” he says, laughing softly. “Shit, sorry. God, of course I love you too, okay? I’m in love with you. Always.”

“Okay,” she says, sagging against him with relief.

He slides his hands up her sides. “I can’t believe you got all dressed up to tell me that. You’re so--” He kisses her again, because he’s never had all the words for Clarke. “Awesome,” he settles on, when he pulls back.

Clarke beams at him. Her hair is a mess and he smudged her makeup, and she’s definitely never looked better. “Next time I won’t bother getting dressed up.”

“Yeah, don’t put yourself out on my account.” he says, nuzzling her contentedly. “It’s just a dress.”


	18. "Between a crucifix and the Hollywood sign, we decided to get hurt."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Modern AU, kind of college AU, Clarke shows up without warning and needs a ride.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know how sometimes, you look at a prompt, and get an idea and start writing, and then you’re done and you look back at the prompt and what you wrote and have no idea how you got from point A to point B? That definitely happened here.

"Come on, Bell, please. She doesn't have anyone else to get her. You aren't going to make her spend the night at South Station, are you?"

Bellamy rubs his face, trying to keep his irritation in check. He worked a full day on his construction job and picked up the dinner rush for Miller at the restaurant after work; the last thing he wants to do is deal with some fucking crisis. But--it is a genuine crisis, and someone has to deal with it. "If she'd told someone she was coming, maybe she wouldn't be in this mess," he grumbles, but there's no heat in it.

"Just let me take the car, okay?"

"No way," he says, sharp. "You have class tomorrow." She opens her mouth to protest, and he continues, "I'll get her."

"Bell--"

"It's fine," he says. "We haven't had a chance to chat in a while."

"And you and Clarke love chatting," she mutters.

"She needs a ride, I've got a car. I'll get her, it's fine."

"She's in bad shape, okay? Be nice."

"I'll be nice," he says, gentle. "We do actually get along now, you know. And she's at the bus station in the middle of the night with no advance warning. I don't have to be a genius to figure out something's wrong."

"She didn't give me any details," Octavia admits, worrying her lip. "She just texted that she was twenty minutes away and asked if I knew anyone who could give her a ride."

"Jesus," says Bellamy. "Okay. Let me just--" There's a bottle of Coke in the fridge that he mostly uses to mix drinks for Roma and Raven, but he grabs it and chugs about half in one gulp. "Okay, let her know I'm on my way and not to talk to strangers, okay?"

" _Thank you_ ," she says.

"Try to get some sleep, okay? I'll take care of Clarke."

He takes the Coke with him and turns the radio on to full blast as soon as he gets into the car, but he's pretty sure adrenaline is going to carry him through at this point. He and Clarke don't exactly have the best history--they butted heads over Octavia _a lot_ , Clarke convinced she deserved more freedom, Bellamy pretty sure she was right but not sure how to let go--but by the time Clarke went off to college, they were pretty firmly friendly, and he even looks forward to seeing her on breaks, worries about her when she's gone.

Worries a lot when she gets on a bus and shows up at South Station in the middle of the night, because--fuck. That's not safe.

He thinks about her a lot more than he probably should, honestly.

She's sitting outside on the steps by the commuter rail when he pulls up, head resting on her knees, with a duffle bag by her side, and he sees red.

"What the fuck, Clarke! You couldn't even wait inside?"

She gives him a tired smile. "Hi, Bellamy. Thanks for coming."

He wraps her up in his arms out of general frustration. "Jesus fucking Christ, what is wrong with you," he murmurs against her hair. "What happened?"

She clings to him, hard. "Fucking--god. Everything. My dad's in the hospital. I found out from a fucking _google alert_. I can't reach my mom, I hate my roommate, I hate my classes, I don't even know which hospital he's in, but he's got to be here, right? They wouldn't leave town. I can just hang out at MGH and make a scene until the press shows up and she has to call me back."

"Yeah, that'll probably do it," he says, rubbing her back. "Jesus."

"Sorry. I'm sure you were doing better things than picking me up in the middle of the night."

"Sleep is overrated. Come on, let's get you back to our place, yeah?"

He bundles her into shotgun and gives her the Coke. She doesn't drink it, but holding it in her lap seems to make her feel better. She looks--bad, he decides. Too thin and worn, wrung out. She must have just heard about her father, but her semester couldn't have been going well up until this point. It's not exactly a shock--they're Facebook friends and he's been mildly concerned about her recent posts--but seeing it is rough.

"You hate your roommate, huh?" he asks, once they're on their way back.

"Yeah," says Clarke, giving him a sleepy smile that twists his heart up. "She's super conservative, gross about everything, really judgy about my _lifestyle choices_. She and her boyfriend are saving themselves for marriage, so you can imagine how she feels about a bisexual girl who doesn't mind casual hookups." She rubs her face. "I try to be home as little as possible."

"Really? I would have expected a parade of mostly naked girls every night. Just to show her."

Clarke laughs. "I thought about it, but it's honestly not worth dealing with her."

"Ouch."

"Yeah." She relaxes into the seat, closes her eyes. "Tell me about you."

"Not much to tell. Still doing construction, still working at the restaurant."

"I bet you have all kinds of bad customer stories for me."

"I do."

She's asleep in a few minutes, which would make him jealous, if she didn't look so fucking terrible. He doesn't know what she's doing in New York, but whatever it is isn't working for her. She should come home, where he can keep an eye on her.

He lifts her out of the car when they get in, and she stirs awake in his arms. "You don't have to carry me," she says, sleepily amused.

"I was trying not to wake you up." He puts her down and grabs her bag out of the back seat instead. "You look like shit."

"I know." She yawns. "I was supposed to be in hours ago, when the train was still running, but that bus is always a nightmare."

"It's fine. I didn't mind getting you."

"You totally did." She bumps her shoulder against his. "Thank you, Bellamy."

"Seriously, it's fine."

Octavia's passed out on the sofa when they get in, and Clarke seems to know better than to wake her.

"She's got class at eight," Bellamy whispers. "You can just take her bed, she'll never get back to sleep if we move her."

Clarke nods, jots down a quick note to say she's here and safe, and then follows Bellamy into Octavia's room. She's slept here plenty of times in the past, he doesn't really need to show her the way, but he's worried.

"Thanks again."

"Get some sleep," he says, and kisses her on the forehead impulsively. He hopes it comes off as fraternal and concerned, not just weird.

But she just smiles at him, so it's probably fine. "You too."

He brushes his teeth and washes his face, strips down to his boxers and crawls into bed. The caffeine was probably a mistake, but he's still exhausted, so that's something, anyway.

He's on the verge of sleep when his door creaks open, and he sees Clarke hovering.

He sits up, blinking at her. It's too dark to know much except that it is Clarke, so he goes for his bedside lamp, but she says, "Don't get up." 

"Everything okay?"

She huffs. "I can't sleep," she admits. "I don't really--I think not being alone would help? And if I try to go with Octavia--"

"You definitely won't get any sleep," he says. His mouth is suddenly dry. He'd say he's attracted to Clarke the same way he's attracted to any pretty girl, but honestly, he likes Clarke too much the attraction to remain purely physical. To say nothing about how much he frets about her.

It's a bad idea. A really bad idea. But she looks exhausted. And she was sleeping in the car. Maybe it really will help.

He pulls the blankets back. "Come on."

She doesn't hesitate, settles in next to him, head pillowed on his chest, one arm around him. He puts his own arms around her and buries his face in her hair.

"Sorry I'm a mess."

"It's kind of cool, really. I've never seen you freaking out. Feels like revenge for all the times you saw me having no idea what to do with Octavia."

"You did fine," she says. He can feel her smile against his skin, and he kisses her hair, while he has the chance.

"Go to sleep, Clarke."

*

He wakes up with morning wood, which is only to be expected, but is still kind of embarrassing. There's a girl on top of him, of course he's excited. He tries to extricate himself from under her, but Clarke tightens her grip.

"I know you have a dick, Bellamy," she says, without opening her eyes. "It's not news."

Bellamy snorts and settles back into bed. "Maybe I have to go to the bathroom," he says, rubbing her back a little. She's wearing an oversized t-shirt, and he feels way too natural in bed with her.

She should definitely stay. New York is no good for her.

"You can wait," she says, and burrows closer. "Haven't slept so well in a while. Sorry."

He smiles a little. "Rough year?"

"Rough year. Sorry I stormed in with no warning, dragged you to pick me up, and then forced myself into your bed. I'm kind of ruining your life."

"You're not," he says, amused. "There's a lot worse things than waking up with you."

She laughs at that, buries her face against his neck. He should not ask if she wants to make out. He thinks she probably does, but not right this minute. She's still got a lot going on in her life, he should probably wait. "Glad I'm not the absolute worst," she says.

He's going to respond, but her phone makes a noise, and she gets off him to pick it up. He barely has time to be disappointed, because once she's grabbed it, she settles right back beside him.

It should be so much weirder than it is.

"Your mom?" he asks.

"Your sister." She opens up the text, which is apparently the third thing Octavia's sent this morning. The first is a picture of the two of them curled up together, completely asleep and dead to the world, and then the message _?????????_ , before she went to class. Now that she's out, she's added, _please tell me your emergency was not that you needed to sleep with my brother immediately_.

Bellamy snorts, can't help it, and Clarke smiles too. She responds, _call it a fringe benefit. my dad's in the hospital_.

The little "..." shows up, meaning Octavia and Clarke are about to have a serious talk, and he actually does have to use the bathroom, so he kisses her on the cheek, mostly on impulse, and then climbs out of bed, trying not to think about any of this even though he probably should. Clarke is twenty, which is firmly out of the creepy category, he thinks, and she is the one who asked to sleep in his bed and made jokes about sleeping with him to his sister, so--yeah. 

Probably fine.

She's leaving the bedroom as he heads back in; she's got her phone pressed up against her ear, and she saying, "Of course not, how can I--" 

Her mother (he's pretty sure) cuts her off, and Clarke rolls her eyes at him and then leans up to press her lips against his, light and quick, dry, and then pulls back to pick up the conversation without missing a beat.

"I'm transferring anyway, I'll just do an extra semester at Northeastern. I think _my father has is in the hospital_ is a pretty good reason to take a semester off."

Bellamy goes to make coffee, trying not to grin, because--her father has a serious medical condition. He shouldn't be excited she's transferring. Or about the whole kissing thing. This is not, broadly speaking, a good day.

But she probably wouldn't have done it if he wasn't supposed to be thinking about it.

He's leaning on the counter, drinking his coffee, when Clarke comes back in. He hands her a mug wordlessly, and she accepts, pours herself a cup, and then settles in next to him, not quite touching.

"How's your dad?"

"Cancer," she says, shrugging. "So--I guess we'll find out."

Bellamy nods, puts his arm around her. She leans into him. "I'm sorry," he says.

"They've been cagey all semester, I knew something was up. But--honestly, I thought they were getting a divorce or something, not--" She rubs her face. "I can't believe no one told me. I had to find out from a vague _Jake Griffin hospitalized_ article, and she probably _still_ wouldn't have told me if she hadn't wanted to yell at me for bailing out on school and coming here."

"Which is why you did it."

"Which is why I did it. Plus, fuck this semester, and NYU, and New York City as a whole." She glances at him. "Don't you have work?"

"Lucky for you, no. Something went wrong on the site over the weekend, so I went in and got some overtime. And I'm off today and tomorrow. I'm all yours." It sounds a little off, in the wake of the bed-sharing and the kissing, so he goes on before she can respond. "Did you find out where your dad is? Do you need a ride?"

She gives him an amused look. "MGH, and it's nine-thirty on a Wednesday. We'd be better off taking the red line and skipping traffic. If you're willing to come," she adds quickly. "I could use some company, and I told Octavia not to ditch class for me."

"I don't mind," says Bellamy.

"I didn't think you liked me that much," she admits.

"I tried not to."

That makes her smile. "Glad it didn't work. I'm going to take a shower and get dressed and we can go?"

"Yeah, just--" He catches her and kisses her, another quick peck, just because--well, he likes her. And he wants to. It's surprisingly not complicated.

She's smiling when he lets her go. "Yeah, that was important," she says, and it doesn't actually sound sarcastic at all. "I'll see you in a few minutes."

He washes his face and gets dressed himself, a button-down and his nicest pair of slacks. He's met Clarke's parents a couple times, and they seemed to like him well enough, but he figures encouraging her to drop out of school is probably something they don't approve of. To say nothing of whatever else is happening between them.

"So, Northeastern?" he asks, on their way to the train.

"Yeah. Starting next semester."

"Octavia didn't tell me."

"She didn't know. It was going to be a surprise. I think I thought I was going to jinx it."

"It'll be good to have you back," he says. "Octavia missed you."

"Octavia did, huh?" she asks, amused, and he grins.

"She was inconsolable."

"Yeah, I bet." Her hand finds his, and she laces their fingers together. It's mostly weird how easy and chaste the whole thing is. On the (he'll admit it now, pretty numerous) occasions he thought about something happening with him and Clarke, he'd figured it would some kind of passionate explosion, like in the movies, an argument turning passionate and then a few months of awkward denial before one of them did an anguished declaration of love in the rain.

It's possible he has watched too many period romances with Octavia. And sometimes without her. He likes period romances, so what.

"And you're going to just ditch this semester?" he asks.

"It sounds awful, right?"

"No, it sounds awesome. You can live on our couch."

"Your bed's so much more comfortable, though."

He tenses, surprised, and it's enough to make her freeze up, try to drop his hand, but he doesn't let go. "Octavia might be jealous," he offers. The suggestion caught him off-guard, but--no way he's _objecting_.

"Please, Octavia knew I had a crush on you before I knew I had a crush on you," says Clarke, still looking a little worried. Bellamy has to smile.

"How long have you known?"

"There is no way I'm answering that question," says Clarke.

They met when he was nineteen and she was fifteen, so he assumes that means it's been almost that long. Which is kind of great.

"I guess she's already got pictures," he says, squeezing her hand. "How much worse can it get?" 

"I'm hoping it's going to get better," Clarke says, sounding a little wistful, and Bellamy remembers that she's had a really rough twenty-four hours, and feels kind of guilty for being psyched that she wants to date him. It's still great, but-- "Oh god, don't get weird," she says. "You're the good part. Just keep being you."

"Okay, then, yes, please come live in my bed until you start school. And after if you want. That would be great. I'm excited."

She laughs outright at that, bright and clear. "There we go. That's more like it."

And Bellamy thinks, yeah, it is.


	19. "I know it ain't easy, giving up your heart/ (Nobody's perfect, trust me I've learned it)"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Post season two! Still mostly fluff, that's my jam, etc.

Clarke comes back with a broken arm, a gash on her forehead, and a warning about a group of Grounders coming. He thinks she's going to leave again as soon as she's healed, but she doesn't, just comes back into their lives like she never left, slotting back into shifts in medical and strategy meetings, so easy it sets him on edge.

He keeps from ever being alone with her. If they talk, they'll fight, and if they fight, he'll get all these feelings out, and he doesn't know what will be left, when he stops being angry with her.

"You can't avoid her forever," Octavia says, like she wasn't avoiding her at first too.

"I'm not trying to," he lies. "The hunting party is leaving, better get going."

"You're an idiot," she tells him, and he shrugs one shoulder.

"Catch something good, okay?"

*

He's drunk when she corners him, three weeks after she gets back. Her arm is still healing, but her face is better. She's putting weight back on. 

It doesn't even hurt that much, looking at her.

She sits down on the packed earth next to him, takes the jug of moonshine he's drinking, and has a drink herself.

"Still mad at me?" she asks.

"Yeah."

"I would be too," she says, and passes the jug back.

It's almost companionable.

*

He finds a drawing of himself and Octavia in charcoal on his bunk two days later. It's not a pose they've ever been in before, or not one that he remembers, but it's like deja vu, it's so plausible. He's reading and she's sitting by his feet, sharpening a knife. Like a memory someone took out of his head, and that’s why he doesn’t have it anymore.

It's not signed, but it doesn't have to be. It doesn't feel like an apology, just a present. Just a sign that she's thinking of him.

*

A deer tears his side open with its antlers when he's hunting, and she's the one in med station when he comes in.

"Bellamy, holy shit--"

"You should see the other guy," he grunts. 

"The other guy was a deer," says Miller. "And it got away."

"Traitor."

"Fuck," says Clarke, and starts barking orders. The wound is apparently shallow, but it's bleeding a lot, and he passes out somewhere in the process of getting bandaged up. He knows she'll take care of him, but he'd rather not be awake for it.

When he comes to again, she's in a chair by his cost, asleep, one hand holding his, head pillowed next to his. He reaches out for her with his other hand, stopping just before he touches her hair.

He's mad at her. He only knows how to be mad at her.

She stirs awake a few minutes later, smiles at him, sleepy. "I can't believe you lost a fight with a deer."

"Shut up."

She squeezes his hand. "Don't do that again."

"You don't get to tell me what to do."

"I'm asking," she says.

His jaw works, and he finally says, "Don't you want to have this fight?"

"No."

He glares at her. "Why not?"

She lets go of his hand and stands, stretching. He misses having her by her side, and it annoys him. "Why would I want to have a fight with you?" she asks. When he doesn't respond, her eyes go soft. "I want you back," she admits. "I miss you. But--I understand why you can't forgive me."

It's about the most enraging answer she could have given, and he says, "I already tried to forgive you, and you--"

"If you open up your stitches, I'm not going to put them back," she says, and he can't tell if she's trying to avoid the conversation or it's actual concern.

"Fine," he mutters, settling back into bed.

"I didn't need forgiveness then," she says, soft, on her way out. "That wasn't why I left. But--I know what I did to you, and I am sorry for that."

And then she's gone.

*

His injury keeps him at camp for a few weeks, and that's when he realizes Clarke never leaves either. Avoiding her meant not thinking about her habits, but with the both of them around all the time, it's impossible not to notice.

"Why don't you ever leave?" he demands, sitting down across from her at breakfast.

"I think my mom thinks if she lets me out, I'll never come back." She prods at her meal with her fork; she's still too skinny, and she moves her food a lot more than she eats it. He doesn't want to worry about her, but it feels inevitable. 

"Would you?"

"I'm done running."

They sit in silence, and then he says, "I did the same things you did, Clarke."

"You didn't," she says, but it's not angry, it's tired. "You didn't let that missile hit Tondc. You didn't trust Lexa. You didn't kill Finn."

He purses his lips; it wasn't the answer he was expecting, and he's not sure what to say. "I would have," he says. "Killed Finn, anyway. That was mercy, Clarke. You did what you had to do."

"I always do what I think I have to do," she says. "I don't trust my own judgement anymore." She's still not looking at him. "But I trust yours. That's why I came back."

And then she's gone.

*

She's avoiding him instead now, and he doesn't know what to do. He doesn't exactly want to see her, doesn't know what to say, but--it makes him anxious, not knowing here she is. Not knowing he could talk to her, if he wanted.

She finds him in other ways. There's another drawing on his bunk a week later, this one a landscape, dark trees and tall mountains. He pins it up next to the other one, and breaks into her room and mends all of her clothes. She retaliates by painting his cabin while he's away, and he finds some berries and makes a fucking _tart_ for her.

"So, are you guys done fighting or what?" asks Miller, when Bellamy gives him the wrapped package with the tart in it.

"Or what," he says. "Give her this and don't tell her where you got it."

*

"Do you know what I used to think?" Clarke asks, sitting down next to him, casual, like it hasn't been weeks since they talked. Like they haven't been in some sort of bizarre, passive-aggressive, gift-based fight.

"No," he says. "What are you doing out here?" He's sitting against a tree, reading the book Lincoln found for him for his birthday. He wasn't expecting company, let alone Clarke.

"Looking for you." She pushes the book up so she can look at the title, and then nods, like it tells her something vital. "I used to think there was no such thing as deserving to be happy. I thought it was really stupid. Everyone deserves to be happy. You don't have to earn that."

He smiles a little. "How old were you when you changed your mind?" He didn't know Clarke when she was a kid, of course, but he can imagine her easily, an idealistic little princess, so sure of herself, believing the best of everyone. It hurts, but in a nice way.

"I don't know. I'm not sure I have."

"Really?"

She leans against the tree, looking up at the sky. "I don't think happiness is something you deserve. It's something you get or you don't."

"And you don't."

"I think I still could. I don't think I deserve it, but I think I could get it anyway."

He has to smile a little. "That's good."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah." He wets his lips, and it feels almost like surrendering to say, "I think you deserve it."

"Good. You're part of my happiness plan."

He has to laugh, mostly because she's so _serious_. Clarke Griffin, planning her happiness. "I am?"

"Yeah," she says, and deliberately takes his hand, lacing their fingers together. His heart stutters, stops, and then starts beating wildly. Her hand is small and warm, rough, and he squeezes it without quite meaning to. "I'm sorry," she says. "For not being able to stay with you."

"I forgive you," he says, and she leans her head against his shoulder and closes her eyes.

They stay like that until dark, and they go back to camp together, still hand-in-hand.

*

"So, is there a second step to your happiness plan?" he asks her a week later. They've stopped avoiding each other. It's not like it was before, but they've never really had a chance to get a real status quo going. He's looking forward to finding out what that looks like. 

"Oh, yeah," she says, and kisses him. It's surprising, without being a surprise at all.

"Oh," he says.

"I get it if you're not--" He's not sure what she's going to say, what she thinks he isn't. What part of this he thinks he doesn't want. "Ready. I was trying to wait."

He has to smile at that, and it feels unfamiliar. Nice. "You were courting me."

"A little bit." She shrugs. "I thought you needed time."

"I guess," he admits.

"You good now?"

She's putting weight back on, going out of the camp sometimes. She seems happy, a lot of the time. He likes it.

"I'm good," he says, and kisses her again.


	20. "They're just girls breaking hearts/Eyes bright, uptight, just girls/But she can't be what you need if she's 17/They're just girls/They're just girls"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> High school AU with 17-year-old Clarke and 22-year-old Bellamy and mild smut, in case that is something that bothers you.

"I cannot fucking believe I'm here," Bellamy mutters darkly.

"I can't believe you're here either," says Clarke, way too cheerful. "This is fucking creepy. You're the worst."

"I'm not here to be creepy," he tells her, and she grins.

"No, of course not. You're here because you're way too concerned about your sister--"

"With fucking _reason_."

"With reason," Clarke grants, eyes going soft. "But still. She's got me looking out for her. And Raven. And Raven's boyfriend--"

"I have no reason to trust Raven's boyfriend."

"He's besotted with Raven." When he still looks unconvinced, she adds, "I trust him."

"That's more compelling. Okay, Raven's boyfriend."

"Look, I'm just saying, you're twenty-two. You're legal to drink. You don't have to come to a high-school party just to look out for your sister, and it is pretty creepy for anyone who knows you. And isn't me. But I am including Octavia."

"I just--she called me," he says, helpless. The last party she went to, someone slipped something in her drink, and when he showed up, a guy was putting the moves on her. Clarke's probably the only reason he's not in jail for assault, since Octavia was in no state to intervene. He owes her, really.

"I know," says Clarke. "But you're still creepy, and I'm still going to call you out on it. Want to go check the keg?"

"You're seventeen," he points out.

"If you bust everyone here who's illegally drinking, you're going to have no time to look out for your sister," she says, bright. She takes his hand, which probably makes sense in the crush of people, and tugs him toward the kitchen. "Come on. You're going to stand out if you're old _and_ sober. I'm helping you with your cover."

"Thanks, Secret Agent Griffin."

"Any time, Creeper Blake."

*

Clarke Griffin moved to town at the beginning of Octavia's junior year, and she and Octavia rapidly became best friends. Bellamy mostly approved; she's got a talent for arguing unmatched by anyone else he's ever met, but he loves that in a person. They bicker like it's their job, but she's a loyal friend, fierce and passionate, always spoiling for a fight and always on Octavia's side.

If there's one thing he dislikes about her, it's that she's seventeen. If there's another, it's that she's his sister's best friend.

But other than that, yeah. He loves everything about Clarke Griffin.

*

"Bell, seriously?" Octavia says. She was on the dance floor with a large guy who looks almost as old as he is; Clarke had to hold him back from stalking over there to intervene. Unfortunately, they still caught Octavia's attention, and now she's going to murder him. "What are you doing here?"

"I'm--" he starts, but Clarke takes his hand again and beams.

"I invited him. I wanted a date."

"You brought my brother to a party as your date?" Octavia asks. She clearly does not buy this at all.

"He's kind of cute," Clarke says. "You know, for a dork."

"Thanks," he says, and she turns the full force of her smile on him, which is a little staggering.

"Bell, I'm fine," says Octavia, soft.

"Which is why I'm hanging out with Clarke, not you," he says, matching her tone. "But if you need us, we're here, okay?"

"And if you don't, we're going to make out," says Clarke, and he chokes.

"Does he know that?" Octavia asks, but she sounds amused. Not like him and Clarke making out is something that would scar her for life.

"I just told him, didn't I?"

"He looks really prepared." She leans up and pecks him on the cheek. "I'm okay. You don't have to stay."

"Well," he manages, keeping his voice surprisingly even, "apparently I might get to make out."

*

He doesn't entirely understand how he gets involved in Spin the Bottle. He is sure that it's actively gross for him to participate, but Clarke's been smiling and holding his hand all night, and she's basically his moral compass, so if she's going to drag him to a Spin the Bottle game, he's going to go with it.

"Isn't this really creepy?" he asks her.

"Hey, does anyone here not want to make out with Octavia's hot brother?" Clarke asks the group, and gets a kind of general roar of encouragement. "See, so it's creepy, but consensually creepy. Which is the okay kind of creepy."

"I do not understand you at all," he tells her, but a guy across the circle is already spinning the bottle, so she doesn't respond.

Bellamy didn't get a lot of chances to do stuff like this when he was in high school; his mother was out all the time, and then she got sick, so parties weren't really something he got to go to. So he doesn't know if it's always this surreal, or it's just that he is old and hanging out with his sister's best friend, who keeps talking about making out even though it is ruining his life.

Clarke's first kiss of the evening is a guy named Jasper, who is kind of friends with Octavia. Clarke gives him a perfunctory peck and then spins the bottle herself, and, of course, hits Bellamy.

"It's all in the wrist," she tells him, and pulls him in for a slightly longer kiss, with just a hint of tongue before she pulls away.

She has to nudge him to get him to spin himself, and his wrist is apparently not great, because he hits Raven's boyfriend on the opposite side of the circle. The guy gives him a smacking kiss and then spins himself, and gameplay resumes, even though Clarke totally kissed him.

A girl he doesn't know hits Clarke, and she gives the girl a pretty decent kiss before pulling back and spinning the bottle again.

How is she _good_ at this? How is always hitting her mark in Spin the Bottle a skill that she's developed, and why is he her mark?

"Second kiss, Griffin," says Raven, sounding amused.

"What does that mean?" Bellamy asks her.

"Must last at least one minute," she says, tugging on his shirt. "They'll time us."

She kisses him slow, easy, sliding her tongue into his mouth like they have a lot longer than a minutes. Bellamy hasn't done this a lot--embarrassingly little, honestly--and he follows her lead, lets her take charge. It's really fucking good.

Someone says, "Time," and Clarke pulls back, smiles, and plants one more quick peck against his lips before she settles back in.

"Your spin, Bellamy," she says, smug, and he manages to land the bottle on himself. Not on purpose, but it still feels like a pretty accurate reflection of how dazed he is.

*

The third hit (Clarke's, again, she hasn't missed him yet) is a three-minute kiss, and he manages to hit her after that, at which point the rule is, apparently, that they be locked in a closet for fifteen minutes.

"Isn't it supposed to be seven minutes in heaven?" he asks, as Clarke tugs him in. It's a pretty spacious closet, even if the Christmas decorations are a little weird. There is an angel watching them. It's weird. He's pretty sure its eyes are following him wherever he goes.

"Seven minutes is really not long enough," she says, squeezing his hand. "We were, uh--" she laughs. "We were kind of opening the door on things we didn't want to see."

"How often do you do this?" he asks.

"Spin the Bottle? A few times a year."

"Get locked in the closet."

"I've never been locked in the closet before," she says. "I have excellent bottle control."

"So, when I said I wanted to come to this party to keep an eye on O--"

"I wanted you to come to this party so we could make out," Clarke says, happily. She winds her arms around his neck. "You know we're wasting time, right?"

"You know I have a house, right? I'm an adult, I don't have to make out in closets." His hands settle on her waist. "Also, you're seventeen."

"Which is over the age of consent in this state, so it's not particularly relevant. And you _don't_ make out in your house. Octavia says she can't remember the last time you went on a date."

"I'm busy, okay?"

"You should get out more," Clarke says, and he meets her when she leans up for the kiss, kisses her back hard, stops thinking about all the things that she apparently doesn't care about. She wants to kiss him, and he wants to kiss her, and they're locked in a closet for the next fourteen or so minutes with nothing else to do.

"We should stay in more," he murmurs, trailing kisses down her jaw. "Again, adult. House. No creepy tree angels watching us."

"Uh huh," says Clarke, angling her head back. Her hand slides down to his jeans, and she flicks the button. "Bet I can get you off in the next fourteen minutes."

"You really can," he agrees, and she shoves his pants down and does just that.

*

They're making out again and his hand is straying down to stroke Clarke under her skirt when he realizes it's been a lot longer than fifteen minutes. "Did they just abandon us in here?" he asks.

Clarke pushes her hips against his fingers, and he can feel how wet she is, which has his dick twitching even though he just came. "Probably. It's, like, fifty-fifty. But I guess it's probably been more than fifteen minutes, yeah."

"Fifty-fifty?" he asks, stroking her harder.

"If you hit someone four times, you're either really lucky or really unlucky. If you're unlucky, they usually come in ten minutes." She flashes him a grin. "If you're lucky, the door probably isn't even locked, and they're just waiting for us to notice."

"Oh," he says, and wets his lips. "So, if we try the door--"

"If you try the door, I will _murder you_ ," she says, pushing her hips against his hand again, and he flushes.

"Right. Sorry." He kisses her again and slides his hand inside her underwear, getting his fingers right against her skin, making her moan. "If someone walks in on us, I'm going to murder them."

"Good. I'll help."

*

In the end, what gets them out of the closet is O banging on the door and saying, "God, you guys, we need to _go home_ , get your clothes back on."

Clarke is disheveled, lips swollen from kissing, shirt and skirt both pushed up, underwear around her ankles. Bellamy isn't in much better shape. They didn't actually have sex, because neither of them had a condom, but they did absolutely as much as they could with what they had.

"Uh, sorry, one sec!" he calls, and gives Clarke an embarrassed smile. She grins and kisses him, and then straightens her clothes. He does the same, and they give each other a quick once over and then he opens the door.

"I cannot believe you fucked my brother in a closet," Octavia says, but she sounds amused.

"I didn't," Clarke says. "And I will not go into any more detail than that. But I promise I did not fuck your brother in a closet."

"You're going to."

"I'll probably just do it on a bed," Clarke says, easy.

"Aren't you going to tell me I'm old and gross or something?" Bellamy asks his sister, falling into step on her other side. 

Octavia rolls her eyes. "Clarke told me she was going to fuck you, like, the first time she met you. I've had plenty of time to prepare myself. I already know exactly what I'm going to tell my therapist."

" _Bellamy is not that emotionally mature and Clarke always gets what she wants, so I gave them my blessing_ ," Clarke says, in her best Octavia voice.

"Basically."

"Thanks," he grumbles, but he chances a smile at Clarke, and Clarke beams back.

*

The next time he sees her, he can't help asking, "Did you really tell Octavia you were going to fuck me the first time you met me?"

She actually looks kind of embarrassed, which is a new look for her, in his experience. He's kind of into it. "Um, yeah. Well, it was more, like, hey, your brother is really fucking hot, and then we joked around about it for a bit, and she told me you never dated but I was welcome to try, and I was like, yeah, I'm going to make that happen."

"I don't date," he admits. He hasn't had time to think about that stuff in so long. "But, uh, Octavia seems pretty good and she doesn't need constant adult supervision anymore and--"

"You're horny and want to get laid."

"I was going to say I really like you," he says, frowning.

Her expression softens, and she winds her hands around his neck. "Okay, good," she murmurs. "Me too."

All told, he's still really glad when she turns eighteen. And nineteen. And twenty. And, well, every birthday they're together is a good one. He's looking forward to a lot more.


	21. "Cause I'm a vegetarian and I ain't fuckin scared of him"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Modern AU? With some Raven/Octavia for value.

You don't get to be friends with Raven Reyes unless you're willing to get in some number of fights.

When they first met, this was fairly alarming to Clarke; she'd been raised in a family where violence was never the answer and you should always use your words, so meeting someone who felt that punching first and asking questions later was a valid way to live her life was new and exciting. And Clarke kind of likes it, really. Not that picking fights is necessarily fun, but it's cool, in a mild college rebellion way, being someone who has her friend's back when she gets into brawls with douchebags at bars.

The flip side, of course, is that sometimes that she gets into fights with mostly normal people, for reasons completely beyond Clarke.

"So, do you know what happened?" she asks the guy next to her. He's with the angry brunette who Raven is screaming at, and he's decently hot and looking amused. She's had to interact with worse people when she's out with Raven.

"Octavia is a vegetarian," he says. 

"I'm going to need more to go on."

"Your friend was talking some kind of shit." He looks at her, like he's trying to figure out if she's going to get offended and start fighting him too. But loyalty only goes so far, and saying Raven talks shit is basically equivalent to saying that water is wet. If Clarke fought everyone who said Raven was talking shit, she'd probably get in more fights than Raven does. "About how vegetarians are ignoring evolution or--I don't even know. They're both too drunk for me to really follow the logic."

"Huh," says Clarke, frowning at Raven. "That's--kind of a lot, even for her."

He snorts. "So, this is a regular thing for you?"

"I'm the backup, yeah. She's scrappy, but she tends to bite off more than she can chew."

"I can relate." He offers his hand. "Bellamy."

"Clarke."

"First name or last name?"

"First. You?"

"First." He jerks his head to the girl. "That's my sister, Octavia. She's also kind of--always prepared to throw down."

"Looks like it." Clarke cocks her head. "Not that they're actually fighting. This might be growth for Raven. Just yelling, no bloodshed."

Bellamy worries his lip, which is a good look for him. He'd be even better with a smile, but thoughtful works too. The brooding, romantic hero thing is always a hit. "Yeah, uh--I think they might be flirting, actually."

"Flirting?" Clarke repeats dumbly, but she takes another look and--okay, now that he mentions it, she can see the amused spark in Raven's eye, the way that the yelling has toned down a little, softened, and, yeah, that is definitely Raven's _I want to hit that_ smirk. "Oh, god, seriously, Raven?"

He laughs. "So, she's not your girlfriend?"

"No, my roommate. She's, like--a one on the Kinsey scale, she never hits on girls. This is actually kind of awesome. I knew that she totally used arguing as foreplay. I'm never going to let her live this down."

"Do you think this means we don't have to intervene?"

Clarke considers him. She's pretty good at reading people, mostly, and he doesn't seem like the stand-back-and-watch type. "Do you always wait and see if you're needed? No offense, but you give off kind of impressive _protective big brother_ vibes. Like, visible from space."

"Yeah, so, the first time I saw her pick a fight? I was there in ten seconds flat, getting in the guy's face, and Octavia got so fucking pissed at me. She totally forgot about the guy she was trying to beat up and started yelling at me instead, so we finally agreed that I'd only step in if she asked me to. And she's good about asking me when she does need it, so--" He shrugs. "I'm still not thrilled about it, but it's about as good as it's going to get."

"Because trying to talk your sister out of fighting random people is just totally unrealistic?"

"How's it go when you try it with your friend?" he asks.

"Touche." She bites her lip, but what the hell. Raven seems set. "So, do you know anywhere that's open for food around here?"

"Yeah. Why?"

"I'm hungry, but I'm pretty sure Raven and your sister are going to start making out on the bar and probably turn it into a brawl, or just skip the making out and get straight to the brawl. So I'd rather eat somewhere else."

"There's a Denny's, if you're drunk enough for that."

"I really just want to get out of here before the explosion." She raises her eyebrows at him. "You coming?"

He breaks out in a grin, which is just as great as she thought it would be. "I thought you'd never ask."

*

An hour later, she's playing footsie with Bellamy in a booth at Denny's when Raven and Octavia stumble in. They're the worse for wear, but she can't really tell if it's because of a fight or a hasty hookup. It really could go either way. Or even both ways. 

Octavia slides in next to her brother and swipes a fry. "Is that meat, Bell?" 

"It's almost like I eat meat all the time," he says, sharing a conspiratorial smile with Clarke. So far in their impromptu date, she's learned that he's twenty-five, he's a graduate student studying history, and his favorite ninja turtle is Raphael, because he likes tortured badass types.

Also he's hot and she wants to make out with him, but she knew that already.

"I can't believe you _left_ ," she says. "You never leave." 

"I got a better offer," he says, inclining his chin toward Clarke. "And you seemed to have it under control. I figured you'd text if you ended up at the hospital or anything."

Raven has just sort of flopped into Clarke's lap in a boneless mess of human. "Did you guys fight or have sex or both?" she asks. Raven grunts, which was about all she was expecting. She raises her eyebrows at Octavia, who shrugs.

"A lady doesn't kiss and tell. And we all know the first rule of Fight Club."

Bellamy rolls his eyes, but it's clear there's a smile trying to break through. "You're ridiculous, O."

"You're the one who's out on a date when his sister could be _dying_ \--"

"You're the one who didn't want me interfering," he says. "And if I'm not allowed to go on dates when you might be picking a fight, I'll only be able to go out when you're asleep." She huffs and leans against him, and he ruffles her hair. The affection between them is genuine and obvious and more than a little heartwarming. "Anyway, you picked up a date too."

"Fine." Octavia glares at Clarke. "You better be nice to my brother. He looks badass and shit, but he's kind of a pushover for pretty girls. Don't break his heart."

"We're barely even on a date. We're at Denny's," Bellamy protests. He's blushing a little.

"Don't worry, I like your brother," Clarke assures her. She hooks her foot around Bellamy's. "You going to be nice to my roommate?"

Octavia's smile is all teeth. "Very nice."

"We're going to die, right?" Bellamy asks, resigned.

"Oh yeah, no question."

*

Their second date is dinner, and it's awesome. Their third date is making out on his couch and it's interrupted by Octavia's single permitted phone call from jail.

"They started it!" she tells them, on speaker phone. "That guy basically threw his face at Raven's fist."

Bellamy rubs the bridge of his nose, like he already has a headache. "That definitely sounds like a real thing that happened. I was going to get laid, you know."

"Post bail, then have sex. It's not like it takes long."

Bellamy gives Clarke a rueful smile, and she leans up to kiss him before she pulls her shirt back on. "I knew we should have waited until they were asleep."

He laughs. "Next time."

"Next time."


	22. “bellarke FBI/gov agents + fake relationship + ALL THE PINING ON BOTH SIDES”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> FBI fake married! Without that much pining, despite the prompt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Full disclosure, I wrote this a few weeks ago as part of my "I'm drinking all this weird leftover alcohol in my fridge, send me prompts" initiative. I had some very bad mixed drinks. But it's special and deserves to be honored.

“There is no way this is a real assignment,” says Bellamy. “You are fucking with us.”

“Do you really think the FBI sends agents on assignment just to fuck with them?” asks Jaha.

“What possible reason is there we have to pretend to be married?”

“NATIONAL SECURITY,” says Jaha. “The nation needs you to pretend to be married. Your country needs you, Agent Blake.”

Clarke shrugs. “I checked the briefing. The safehouse is way nicer than my apartment.”

“How does this help national security, exactly?” asks Bellamy.

“REASONS,” says Jaha. “They are definitely not made up at all. I do not have money riding on this.”

“Nothing about this is filling me with confidence.”

“REASONS,” says Jaha again. “Get on that fake marriage, Blake. Dismissed.”

*

Bellamy did not join the FBI to pretend to be married to Clarke Griffin. He was going to do good and shit. Be a hero. Be a role model. Be all that he could be.

Well, that was the army, but close enough.

Anyway, he is not in this to pretend to be married to Clarke Griffin. He is here to be a fucking hero.

“Raven sent us china,” says Clarke. “Like, plates. They’re fancy.” She squints. “No, never mind. They look fancy, but the pattern around the sides is definitely porn.”

“They’re definitely fucking with us.”

“Yeah, obviously.”

“And you’re not, I don’t know, worried about this? They’re fucking with us. Something bad is going to happen.”

“National security, Blake!” says Clarke, brisk. “National security.”

“Reasons,” Bellamy says, sighing and running his hand through his hair.

“Here, eat something off our weird pornographic plates,” says Clarke, shoving one at him. “That’ll make you feel better.”

The plates are pretty hilarious. “It doesn’t hurt,” he admits, and Clarke beams.

“See? Marriage is easy.”

*

The first night, he sees her wandering around in a towel.

“Clothes, Griffin!” he barks, because it’s better response than “holy fuck, have you seen your legs, your legs are fucking unreal.”

“We’re married,” she says. “I’m acting like I would if we were married. Hey, which side of the bed do you sleep on?”

“Uh.”

“I’ll take the left, okay?”

“Uh.”

“Close your mouth, Blake.”

“Why are you so chill with this?”

She bats her eyelashes at him. “Because I’ve always secretly wanted to be your wife.”

He chokes on absolutely nothing. “Jesus, Griffin.”

“We’re married. You should probably call me Clarke.”

He rubs his face. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you.”

She lets out an exaggerated sigh. “You’re just so dreamy, Special Agent Blake.”

“Shut the fuck up, Clarke.”

*

She doesn’t wear clothes around the house, which–Bellamy doesn’t think that is realistic to marriage. Aren’t marriages loveless and shit? Don’t people not wander around mostly naked all the time? He’s pretty sure the shorts she’s wearing don’t qualify as shorts and tank tops that are, like, 90% boob. By percentage. He has never had to do boob math before, but he’s pretty sure. At least 90% boob.

They really need something to do.

“Do we have an assignment yet?”

“Jaha says we have to buy a hot tub. Or the terrorists win.”

“I don’t think Jaha understands how terrorists work.”

“I’ve always wanted a hot tub.”

“You’re going to be the death of me.”

“Well, yeah. That’s how marriage works.”

*

After a week, he calls Jaha.

“NATIONAL SECURITY.”

“That doesn’t mean anything.”

“Have you even read the Patriot Act, Blake?”

“What does that have to do with anything?”

“Have you kissed? Was there TONGUE?”

“Thanks as always for your guidance, sir.”

*

“Do I need to wear fewer clothes?” Clarke asks.

“No,” says Bellamy, instantly. And then, “Wait, what?”

“I’m just saying, I don’t think they’re going to let us leave until we hook up. I was hoping the tanktops would do it. They’re, like, 75% boobs.”

“Ninety,” says Bellamy. “At least 90% boobs. Do we have an assignment?”

“Make babies.”

“So Jaha is–”

“I assume he has money riding on this.”

“And you’re just fine with this.”

“I was hoping you would be, I don’t know. Overcome with lust. And I wouldn’t have to do anything. But you’re just hiding and walking into walls and wearing shirts all the time. It sucks.”

“This is not a good use of government resources,” he grumbles. “So, uh, should I wear my shirt less?”

“We should make out. I had Raven bet on today for _Clarke and Bellamy finally get their heads out their asses_. I’ll go halfsies with you.”

“Sixty-forty.”

“Sixty-forty,” Clarke agrees.

There’s totally tongue.

*

“So, how are those terrorists we were supposed to be fooling?” Bellamy asks Jaha. Mysteriously, after they started making out, the threat to national security was “resolved.”

“They were defeated by the power of love.”

“Isn’t this a horrible misuse of government resources?”

“Only because you didn’t get together when I thought you would,” Jaha grumbles.

“Did you bet federal funding on my and Clarke’s love life?” he asks, horrified. No one told him life was going to be this way.

“Dismissed, Agent Blake.”

“We’re not going to get paid this week,” he tells Clarke.

“You forget I won the bet,” she says. “We’re getting fucking steak.”

Bellamy laughs and slings his arm around her. “For national security?”

“For national security.”


	23. Bellamy keeps a diary

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Modern AU, exactly what it says on the tin.

Clarke discovers Bellamy's diaries entirely by accident.

Really! She's not even just feigning innocence. Bellamy's out of town at a conference, and most of her other friends are busy, so Clarke is bored and goes into Bellamy's room to try to find a book, because Bellamy has a fucking _ton_ of books. Bellamy has more books than anyone else she has ever met. And they're kind of comforting, in a weird way. Most of them were bought used, at tag sales or crammed into cardboard boxes at five dollars for the lot of them, and they smell like old paper and comfort. The Bellamy smell.

Anyway, yeah. She's just looking for something to read when she stumbles over the row of black notebooks, and she picks the first one up without thinking about it. It's black and has _KEEP OUT_ written on the front cover in Bellamy's younger handwriting, the handwriting she remembers from fucking _middle school_.

She blinks down at the page, and then looks back at the shelf, at the neat line of _diaries_. There are a lot. He's been doing this for a while. He might _still_ be doing this.

Bellamy Blake keeps a _diary_.

It takes everything in Clarke to not flip past the first page. Aside from the _KEEP OUT_ , there's also a date, written in a later hand, like Bellamy actually _curates_ his fucking diaries. He is such a fucking librarian. The one she grabbed spans their first year of middle school, September to July, when they _met_ , and Clarke wants to know what kinds of things he was writing about, what he said, if he talked about her.

And there are _years_ of them, just waiting to be pried into.

But Bellamy is her best friend, and her roommate, and she needs to respect his privacy. And he _did_ write _KEEP OUT_ , so it's clear that the diaries aren't meant for public consumption.

She grabs a copy of _Guards! Guards!_ and heads into the living room to read it, doing her best to put the diaries out of her mind.

It does not work at all.

*

Bellamy comes home on Sunday night and flops down next to her on the couch.

"I fucking hate planes."

"Is that something you write about in your diary?" she can't help asking.

He cracks one eye and regards her warily. "What."

"Your diary."

"I don't have a diary."

"You totally do. I was borrowing a book and I found an entire _row_ of diaries. At least, I assume they're diaries, from the way the first one had _KEEP OUT_ written on the front page, and you wrote fucking _date range_ at the top and--"

"It's a _journal_ ," he says. He licks his lips. "Did you read it?"

"No! I didn't! And it was _very difficult_!"

Bellamy looks at her for a minute and then starts laughing. "I thought you were being defensive because you did, but you're just angry that you didn't."

"I'm angry that I haven't yet," she says. "I thought I should ask you first. I deserve to read them."

"So, what you're saying is because you didn't read my journals without my permission, I should be grateful, and let you read my journals. Because you're such a good person."

"Basically, yeah."

"Yeah, absolutely not."

"Why not?"

"They're private."

"Are they really, like-- _diaries_?"

"They're journals," he says, stubborn.

"Do you still keep them?"

"Yeah."

She worries her lip. "Why?"

It's not exactly surprising, because Bellamy likes writing and record-keeping and stuff like that, but it seems so--well, she doesn't know that she's ever met anyone who keeps a diary. Or a journal. Not as far as she knows. Raven has a blog where she rants about stuff, but that's different. Even a private blog for friends is there for _someone_. Bellamy just keeps journals, apparently for his own reference.

"My grandma bought me the first one after my mom died," he says, looking down at his hands. "She said that writing about my feelings might help. I thought it was stupid, shoved it under my bed and didn't look at it for months. But once I started seventh grade, I was dealing with a lot of stuff, and it just--seemed like the right time." 

"Did it help?"

"It did, yeah." He offers her a crooked smile. "I know you just wanted to make fun of me for having a diary, but seriously. It helped a lot. Got me through some bad stuff."

"And I can't read it."

"And you can't read it."

She sighs and flops into his lap. "You're such a dick."

"I am, but I think not wanting you to read my most private thoughts from the last twelve years isn't really one of the reasons why."

"Do you talk about me?"

"Of course I talk about you."

"Do you talk shit about me?"

"All the time." He pauses. "Or did you mean in the journal?"

She laughs and shoves him, and he grins at her, and she tries, very hard, to let it go.

*

It's useless, of course. It's not that she doesn't get it--of course she gets it, it's a journal or a diary or whatever, and those aren't for anyone but the person who writes them. But it still bothers her, because Bellamy knows her better than anyone else, even better than Wells and Raven do, and she hates knowing there are things about him she doesn't know, _tangible_ things. Things she could know, years and years of Bellamy Blake knowledge right in the other room. It's not like the information isn't out there. It's organized by year and date. He probably has a cross-referenced index.

"Did you know your brother has a diary?" she asks Octavia. She stops by the coffee shop where Octavia works on her way home most days, ostensibly because Octavia gives her free drinks, but secretly because she's known Bellamy so long that Octavia is kind of her little sister too, and she likes to check up on her.

"Yeah. Don't tell me he let you read it. He never let _me_ read it. He used to keep it locked in a box so I wouldn't get in."

"No, he didn't let me read it. I tried to convince him that not reading without his permission was, you know, such a heroic sacrifice that he should let me read it as a reward, but he wasn't buying it."

"I wonder why not," Octavia says, dry. "Was it just out? If I hypothetically came over--"

"He accidentally left the box open when he was out of town," Clarke lies. She won't read Bellamy's journals because he's her friend and she respects his privacy; she's not convinced Octavia feels the same. "I should have seized the opportunity when I had it."

"You and your morals," Octavia says, with a sigh. "Call me next time he does that."

"He's probably on alert now. But I'll keep you posted."

*

"You told my sister about my journal?" Bellamy asks the next day.

"I asked your sister about your diary," Clarke says.

He cocks his head at her. "This actually bugs you, doesn't it?"

"Yeah," she admits. "I just--I dunno. I know you don't tell me everything, no one tells anyone else everything. But I want to know everything, and it's weird. Because the diaries are right there and I could find out, and--yeah. It bugs me."

"You don't want to know everything," he says, with a surprising amount of conviction.

"Of course I do! You know everything about me."

"That's why you don't want to know," he says, which makes absolutely no sense. He slams the dishwasher shut and pushes past her to go into his room. "Just forget about it, okay?"

It's the first time Clarke has felt _bad_ about the whole thing, and she has no idea what she even did.

*

Things are weird for a few days after that. Bellamy is quiet and irritable, and Clarke does her best to be nice and considerate, but she can only ever do that for so long before she gets mad and yells at him.

Before she can, he comes in while she's playing Candy Crush Saga and sits down next to her on the couch, stiff and deliberate. When she glances over, she sees he has one of the journals in his hands, and she freezes.

He opens it to the first page and reads, "September 29." She loves listening to him read; he has the best reading voice of anyone she knows, and she sometimes goes to story-time hour at the library--for fucking _toddlers_ \--just to listen to him. "I think this whole diary thing is stupid. Grandma said it would help, and I don't really believe her. But today was so weird, I had to write about it." He licks his lips. "There's this girl in my English class. She sits two seats ahead of me and one row over, and she always has that braid thing in her hair. I don't know the word for it. Most of her hair is down but there are two little braided bits at the front that go around to the back, kind of like a crown. I don't know how to describe it. It's cool. Her name's Clarke, and she talks a lot. But not in a bad way. It's only been a month since school started and no one talks much yet except for her. She's really smart, though. I like listening to her. And today we got assigned partners for this book report, and she's mine." She can see the bob of his Adam's apple as he swallows. "I know grandma wanted me to write about how sad I am, and about mom, but I don't know what to say about mom. I feel like I'm supposed to be sad all the time, and I am, but then when Mrs. Reynolds said I was going to be Clarke's partner, I forgot, and I was just really happy for a minute. I think she's going to be really fun to work with. And then I felt so bad, I thought I was going to throw up. I'm not supposed to be happy about anything yet, right? Mom hasn't even been dead for three months. But I really like Clarke."

Clarke swallows too, stares at him because--she's why. She's the reason he started keeping a diary.

He rubs the back of his neck, closes the notebook. "It's another six years before I figure out I'm in love with you," he says. "It's mostly boring. Your first boyfriend was a highlight, I guess, I had all these really angry entries about how he was a tool and his hair was stupid and he wasn't nearly as funny as he thought he was, and reading them back it was so fucking obvious what was happening, but--yeah. It wasn't until we went to junior prom as friends that I realized I wanted to be your real date that I actually got it." He nods once, to himself, and stands. "So, yeah. Now you know everything about me. Most of it's just--classes and work and freaking out about Octavia starting to date. That's the only, uh--that's all that really matters, honestly. That's what you didn't know."

He goes back into his room to put the diary away, and Clarke stares at his back for a minute before she gets her brain in contact with her legs and figures out how to move.

He's most of the way to his room when she jumps on his back, and he drops the journal to catch her.

"Hi," he says, mildly. "Is this supposed to be romantic or what? I can't actually tell what you're trying to do here."

"I don't know either," she says. He shrugs his shoulders and hikes her up a little, so it's a proper piggyback ride. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"I was trying to work up the nerve back in high school, and then you started dating Lexa, and you kept dating her until we went to college, and then I figured I'd get over it." He shrugs. "I kind of did, but--as soon as I saw you again I realized I hadn't."

"And you still didn't tell me."

"I didn't know how."

"Well, you totally picked the most dramatic way possible."

"I like to make an impression."

She tightens her grip on him, getting closer, presses her face against his neck. "You should have told me."

"I still can't figure out if this is romantic or not. Tell me before I start getting turned on and it gets awkward."

She laughs and presses her lips against his neck, right where it meets his shoulder. He smells like old books and soap, and he's warm and familiar and the person she loves most in the entire world.

"I love you too, okay?"

"So, romantic," he says, still mild. "Usually when I carry girls to my bed it's not, you know. On my back."

"Usually when you carry girls to your bed, it's not me."

That finally gets a smile out of him, relieved and huge, and she feels the tension drain out of his back. For whatever reason, that's what convinces him, and she can't help grinning back.

"It's not you," he agrees, and carries her to his bed on his fucking back.

*

"So, can I read the diaries now?" she asks, resting her head on his bare chest and letting her hand trace patterns over his side.

He laughs. "Please tell me this was not all part of a master plan to read my diaries."

" _Part_ of a master plan," she says. "But mostly I love you. The master plan was a fringe benefit."

"They're so fucking boring," he says. "Seriously. They're going to put you to sleep."

"But I can read them."

"Knock yourself out," he says. "Do you have some embarrassing thing I can look at to make myself feel better? Ideally something that implies you were in love with me even if you didn't notice until just now."

"I sort of noticed," Clarke says. "I think I just figured it would go away if I didn't think about it."

"Mature."

"You have awesome taste in women." She clucks her tongue. "I have a comic book I drew when I was twelve that's a sequel to _Return of the Jedi_. But I marry Luke Skywalker in it, not you."

"That sounds horrific. Bring it on."

They spend the evening with their twelve-year-old selves, and afterward they make out and have sex again and curl up together to go to sleep.

"Don't you need to update your diary with this breaking announcement?" she asks, snuggling back against him.

He kisses her shoulder. "I think I'll remember this one."


	24. Meme thing? idk. WHO DOES WHAT MEME

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I answered the questions from this meme as a series of connected ficlets! So I am putting it on here, for those who might enjoy it and are not on Tumblr. Basically, it's "who in your OTP does X thing."

1\. **falls asleep on the couch**

Bellamy prods her with his foot. “Clarke. Claaaaaaaaarke. Come on, seriously. You have a bed. You remember the bed, right? It’s awesome. It has sheets and pillows and fucking lumbar support.”

“Mmph.”

“God, is there a pillow in your mouth right now? You’re a fucking mess, Griffin.”

“You know what?” she asks, but she’s not actually awake enough to finish the sentence. She just kind of burrows back into the couch.

“Jesus fucking Christ, you are the worst roommate of all time. Come on.”

He scoops her up, which he cannot do for long periods of time, but he can at least carry her to her room. It’s not really how he thought he’d be bringing her to bed for the first time, but this is what he gets for deciding to live with his best friend/unrequited crush. Her passing out on the couch and him having to deal with it.

 

2\. **makes friends with the neighbors**

“We should go.”

“Yeah, but, counter-argument,” says Bellamy. “We could not go.”

“We were invited!”

“We’ve been invited to tons of things we haven’t gone to. We don’t do things all the time.”

“They’re our neighbors. What if we see them in the hall and they’re like, oh, it’s those hermits.”

“That is exactly what I want my neighbors to think when they see me,” Bellamy says.

Clarke pauses. “Yeah, okay. What’s on Netflix?”

 

3\. **is the adventurous eater**

“That is honestly the most disgusting thing I have ever seen,” Bellamy says, with some awe.

“It’s delicious.”

“I do not for second believe you.” He squints at her. “Are you filming this?”

“If I eat the whole thing, Wells will give me twenty bucks. But he wants proof.”

“How did you even get into a conversation where someone bets you twenty bucks you won’t eat–” He waves his hand at the thing she has.

“Natto, which generally agreed to be the most disgusting Japanese food,” Clarke says. “On a graham cracker. With some miracle whip. It’s the grossest s’more ever.”

“If you throw up, please do it in the sink.”

“No promises. Turn on the camera.” 

 

4\. **hogs the covers at night**

Bellamy wakes up because Clarke is kicking him.

“What?” he asks, muzzy.

“You took all the blankets.”

“I did not,” he protests automatically, but then he looks down at himself and sees he is, in fact, covered in blankets. “Oh. Well, I didn’t know I took all the blankets, so it doesn’t count.”

“That is not how logic works,” says Clarke. She huffs and tucks herself in against his side, wrapping her arms around him, and tugs the blankets over herself as well. “If we’re this close, you cannot possibly steal the blankets from me.”

“That sounds like a challenge,” Bellamy says, and tugs her in. If she’s going to be there anyway.

 

5\. **forgets to do the dishes**

“You know you have shit to do, right?” 

Bellamy doesn’t look up from his computer. “I’m doing it.”

“I meant dishes, not arguing with some douchebag on Reddit.”

He frowns. “How did you know?”

“You’re making your internet douchebag face. That’s usually Reddit. You really need to stop going on Reddit.”

“But if I stop going on Reddit, who’s going to tell them they’re they’re wrong?”

“If you keep going on Reddit, who’s going to do the dishes?”

“Maybe if I tell them they’re wrong hard enough, they’ll come over here and do the dishes for me.”

“Yeah, you’re right. That’s definitely plausible.”

 

6\. **tries to surprise their partner more often**

“Did a bag of–flour? Is it flour? Did a bag of flour die? Or explode?”

Clarke jerks up, hits her head on the open cabinet over the sink, and swears violently. “What are you doing here?”

“I live here.”

“Yeah, but it’s–” She looks at the stove. “Fuck, how is it 5:30?”

“The continuing passage of time?” He goes over to stand next to her. It looks like some sort of vindictive, localized storm hit their kitchen. Everything is a disaster. “Did someone rob us? What the hell, Clarke?”

“I was doing something nice. For your birthday.”

“By–destroying our apartment?” he asks, grinning.

She punches him the arm, hard. She actually looks upset, and he swallows down on a guilty feeling. “I was cooking! Fuck you!”

“Hey,” he says, catching her. “I was–I was kidding, Clarke. It’s–” He smiles. “I appreciate it, but you didn’t really have to go to any trouble. I love the usual bottle of vodka and a book. This is–”

“I wanted to do something special,” she says, weirdly defiant. “You know. Something that means something.”

“Your presents always mean something.”

“No, not–” She huffs, and then her hands are fisting in his shirt and she’s pulling him down.

There’s flour on her lips and he doesn’t care at all.

 

7\. **leaves dirty laundry on the floor**

Bellamy trips and falls on his ass trying to get to the shower the next morning, and he’s all ready to yell at Clarke for leaving her bra on his floor, but it’s actually his own boxers that got him, so he just takes a second to appreciate her bare back in his bed before grabbing all their clothes off the floor, tossing them into the hamper, and heading to the bathroom.

 

8\. **stays up til 2 AM reading**

“Bellamy. Bellamy. Bellamy. Bellamy. BELLAMY.”

“I’m awake.”

“I know you’re awake. That’s not what we’re establishing.”

“I’m reading.”

“I also know you’re reading.”

“One more chapter.”

“You said that two hours ago. You’re like three-quarters of the way through the book.”

“One more chapter.”

“I’m not wearing a shirt.”

“Just to the end of the page.”

She flops down in his lap; she really isn’t wearing a shirt. “You’re hopeless.”

He leans down to kiss her forehead. “End of the paragraph.”

“Nerd.”

 

9. **sings in the shower**

“Not Taylor Swift.”

“I know you know all the words,” Clarke says, smug.

“That doesn’t mean I’m going to belt it with you. Something, you know, old-school. Classy. Rolling Stones? I could do, like–Paint It Black.”

“Paint It Black is now shower singing!”

“You haven’t been able to define what shower singing is, aside from Taylor Swift.”

“You have to feel it, Bellamy. You can’t plan shower singing.”

“I’m just saying, I will not sing along to Taylor Swift.”

“Ten bucks says you do.”

Bellamy snorts. “This is going to be the easiest bet ever for me to win. All I have to do is get in the shower with you and not sing Taylor Swift.”

He loses.

 

10\. **takes the selfies**

“Every one of these has your thumb in it,” says Clarke.

“It’s an artistic statement. The statement is _Clarke was too lazy to take the selfies_.”

“I can really hear your artistic voice in this. It speaks to me. On a spiritual level.”

“Yeah, I get that a lot.”

 

11\. **plans date night**

“We could get a reservation somewhere,” says Clarke.

“Or, counter-argument, takeout and Netflix.”

“Isn’t that supposed to be later in the relationship? Like, once our hips give out and we can’t drag ourselves off the couch anymore.”

“Aren’t you a doctor? Isn’t that now how bodies work?”

“I’m a doctor, so obviously I know exactly how bodies work.” She pokes him. “I am going to make us a reservation somewhere. Someday. When you least suspect it. I am gonna take you on a real date, and it will blow your mind.”

“Can’t wait. Pizza or Chinese?”

“Surprise me.”


	25. 58. “I’d die for you. Of course, I’d haunt you in the afterlife but really, it’s the thought that counts.”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Modern AU! Drunk Clarke.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Are you ready for a ton of these to be added? Because I have a ton of these to add. Also I was drunk for like half of them. Don't be like me, kids.

“I would, like–” Clarke gestures with her drink. “I would  _ride into battle with you_.”

Bellamy has to smile. He isn’t sure how much she had to drink before he got here, but it was definitely a lot. She’s leaning on him to an extent that is somewhat alarming. And kind of awesome, but–mostly alarming. There’s a lot of touching.

“What are we riding on?” he asks. He hadn’t even been planning to come to the stupid party, but Clarke sent him a bunch of incomprehensible texts, and he was kind of worried she was dying and just too drunk to articulate it. But instead she’s weirdly, violently affectionate. It’s awesome.

“HORSES. That is what you ride into battle. It’s not a real battle if you’re not on a horse.”

“We have, like, a century of modern warfare that disagrees with you. People do not regularly ride horses into battle anymore.”

She squints up at him, and he lets himself look stupidly fond of her, because she’s drunk, so it’s fine. She’s not going to remember him looking at her like she’s his favorite thing in the world come morning. “If I am going to battle for you, I’m going to be on a horse. I’d, like–I’d  _die_  for you, Bellamy.”

“Please don’t.”

She doesn’t seem to be listening. “Of course, I’d haunt you in the afterlife, but really–” She waves her hand vaguely. “It’s the thought that counts, right?”

“The thought being that in a hypothetical situation where we were on horses and there was a battle and you needed to dive in front of–an arrow? A gun? What are we fighting here?”

“ _Evil_.”

“Right, evil. You’d throw yourself in front of the evil, die for me, and then come back as my weird ghost sidekick.”

She snuggles against him. “That is exactly what would happen.”

He kisses her hair. “Thanks. I love you too.”


	26. 55. “Our first date is a picnic on a beach under the stars? Have you swallowed a romance novel? Do I need to call a doctor?”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Modern AU!

“This is where we’re going?” Clarke asks, squinting at Bellamy.

“What?”

“We’re on a beach.”

“And?”

“There’s a blanket.”

“If there’s one thing I learned from the Star Wars prequels, it’s that some people hate sand.” He pauses. “Also, fuck Jar-Jar Binks. I learned two things.”

“I’m just saying, our first date is a picnic. On a beach.  _Under the stars_. Do you remember how we met? I literally punched you in the face.”

“It was mostly by accident.”

“Did you swallow a bad romance novel? Do I need to call a doctor? Are you going to–I don’t know. Run through the rain to find me and confess your love? Because you will get hypothermia and I will let you die.”

Bellamy gives her an unimpressed look. “So, what I’m getting is, every time I try to be romantic, you’re going to assume I’m either sick or about to get sick. Either way, I’m going to die soon.”

“We’re not really romance people, Bellamy.”

He crosses his arms over his chest, defiant. “Why not?”

“I punched you!”

“You were passionately making a point and accidentally hit me.” He pauses and then grants, “In the face.”

“Just–you know you don’t have to do this for me, right? I don’t need romance or whatever. I did not start dating you for romance. It was, you know. Abs and general belligerence.”

“Abs and belligerence? Seriously?”

“What can I say? I’ve got a type.”

“Well, I can have abs and be belligerent and also give you a moonlit picnic on the beach. I have layers, okay? I’m like Shrek. I can get punched in the face and then make you a romantic meal. I’m fucking _deep_ , Clarke.”

The blanket does look nice. And she’s kind of curious about the contents of the picnic basket. According to Octavia, Bellamy is actually a great cook. There’s probably some awesome food in there. And it’s not like romance is  _bad_. Just weird. And somewhat alarming. But–she could maybe work with romantic. For one date.

“Okay, but for our second date we’re staying home and getting in fights with douchebags in the comments section of YouTube.”

“Metafilter,” says Bellamy.

“Deal.”


	27. 88. “Don’t panic but I think we might have accidentally gotten married…”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I have nothing exciting to say in these summaries. Modern AU, accidental marriage? I don't know, you're not my dad.

“So, let me finish this statement before you react,” says Bellamy. He’s not really convinced this will work, but he has to  _try_.

Clarke blinks, looks around the unfamiliar room, and then settles her gaze back on Bellamy. “You know the statement is now done and I can react, right?”

He bites back his smile, because this is a serious situation and serious things are happening. And his stupid fondness for her is definitely not going to help this situation. Because–god, he’s fucked. “Okay, the next statement.”

Clarke sits up on the bed, all seriousness, but the collar of her shirt is slipping down, exposing one shoulder, and it kind of ruins the whole image. In the best possible way. “Listening. Not reacting. Serious face. I might still be drunk.”

“Serious face,” Bellamy agrees. He lets out a breath. “Okay, don’t panic–”

“Both of those were statements.”

“I think we got married,” he says, in a rush, before he can get distracted.

Clarke doesn’t react, which was kind of what he was hoping for, but he’s honestly a little worried she went catatonic.

“Married?” she repeats, in a hollow voice.

“I’ve got a ring. You’ve got a ring–”

“This is not a ring. It’s–I think this came off a soda bottle.”

“And mine is a twist tie, but I kind of remember a shotgun priest and some vows and I think you kissed my jaw and told me I was your wife.” He holds up a piece of paper. “Also, you know. Marriage certificate.”

Clarke leans across the bed and snatches the paper from him, inspecting it carefully. Bellamy read it as best he could, given he’s also still a little drunk, but–it’s a marriage certificate. It’s pretty straightforward. They were in Vegas, they got drunk, and now they’re married. It makes sense, in that he always kind of wants to marry her, and if he was drunk, he might have been able to convince her it was a good idea. He just wishes he remembered what arguments he used. It would come in handy later, when he tries to convince her again, someday.

She hands the certificate back to him and flops back on the giant hotel bed. “You’re going to need to get me a real ring.”

He wonders if he fell into an alternate universe. Or he’s hearing wrong. Because of alcohol. But that’s not how alcohol works, and probably not how parallel universes work. “What?” he asks instead.

“I’m not going to wear this for the next fifty years,” she says. “I need something that’s at least metal. Or wood, I saw some cool wood wedding rings online.”

“That’s your takeaway?”

She sits up, giving him a somewhat defiant look. “What, do you want me to divorce you instead?”

Bellamy wets his lips, lies down next to her on the bed, careful, in case she’s lulling him into a false sense of security and planning to murder him. But she smiles at him instead, which is actually even more terrifying.

Apparently, Clarke liking him back is weirder than her wanting to kill him. 

“I’ll get you a real ring,” he says, and is rewarded with her smile, bright and a little shy. A smile he’s never seen before.

“Something fancy,” she says, tucking herself in against his side.

“As befits our drunken, shotgun, Las Vegas wedding,” he says, putting his arms around her, hesitant. She doesn’t seem to be murdering him at all.

“I’m a classy girl,” she says, leaning into him. “You will have to buy me dinner too. Dinner and a real ring and I’m yours.”

Bellamy’s plan to win her over had involved a lot of accidentally running into her, weird subterfuge, and pretty much everything but buying her dinner and getting drunkenly married to her, but this sounds way easier than all the elaborate schemes he’d come up with.

“I can do dinner and a ring,” he says.

“Awesome. Now go to sleep until I’m sober.”

He wraps his arms around her, hesitant, and then tightens them when she snuggles against his chest.

“You’re going to murder me when we wake up, right?”

“Definitely.”

He kisses her hair. “Awesome.”


	28. 98. “I can’t watch you with someone else. It’s tearing me apart.”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> THEY'RE ALL MODERN AUs.

Bellamy is not someone who dates.

Or, at least, Clarke has never seen him date anyone. He flirts, he sleeps with girls sometimes, but he’s never had a serious relationship that Clarke has seen. When Clarke asked Octavia (in a casual, friendly, non-invested, non-weird way), Octavia had said that “Bell didn’t do relationships,” and Clarke had let out an internal sigh of relief. She might not get to date Bellamy, but at least no one else is either.

And then Echo shows up.

And Clarke  _likes_  Echo, that’s the worst part. She’s pretty and cool and smart, gives Bellamy constant shit, and fits in effortlessly with their group. Honestly, it’s the worst, because it’s exactly how Clarke thinks she’d be, if they were dating, and it  _sucks_. She could be the kind of girlfriend he apparently wants, but she’s not.

Echo is.

So she pulls back from the group. She goes out with everyone else less, pretends to have work engagements and other things to do, while she sits at home and watches Netflix and is, in all honesty, fucking pathetic.

But it’s better than watching Bellamy with a girlfriend.

She manages to be anti-social for three weeks, covering for her absences with unconvincing non-excuses, before Bellamy shows up at her door, looking irritable.

“Seriously, what the hell?”

“What?”

“I haven’t seen you in a fucking  _month_ , Clarke.”

“So?”

“So, what the hell?”

“I’ve been busy.”

He crosses his arms. “Octavia said you had a thing, but you’re at home, in your pajamas. You aren’t going anywhere. So, for the third time:  _what the hell._ ”

“I’ve been busy. I’m taking the night to recuperate.” He looks deeply unimpressed, and Clarke sags against the door frame. “I just don’t feel like going out, okay?”

Bellamy runs his hand through his hair. “I’m worried about you,” he says, and it twists her up. Not  _we’re worried_ , nothing like that.  _He’s_  worried about her.

“It’s fine.”

“It’s obviously not. What–I don’t know what we did wrong, but I’ll fix it, okay? Do we need to kick Finn out of the group? Because I totally will. Did Murphy say something? Just tell me whose ass to kick and I’ll kick it.”

Clarke worries her lip, but–he looks so fucking upset, and she’s tired of having to avoid him, tired of avoiding him, tired of–

Honestly, she’s tired of him not knowing how she feels.

“It’s you,” she says, soft, and his face falls so quickly that she hastens to add, “Not  _you._ Just–I can’t watch you with someone else. It’s tearing me apart. And that’s not your fault. You don’t have to do anything. Its my stupid thing to deal with. I just–it’s too easy to pretend I’m her and–”

Bellamy is frowning. “I think I missed something here,” he says, voice oddly gentle.

“You have a girlfriend. And that’s cool! That’s totally cool. I’m happy for you. I just–I don’t know how to–”

“I don’t have a girlfriend,” he says.

Clarke gapes at him, and finally manages, “Yes, you do.”

He looks vaguely amused. “I think I’d know better than you.”

“But, Echo–”

“My coworker? She just moved here. She didn’t have a social circle.” He bites his lip, giving her a rueful smile. “I’m not planning on getting a girlfriend anytime soon. It’s kind of a dick move, dating one girl when you’re hung up on another.”

Clarke opens and closes her mouth a few times, and finally manages, “Oh.”

“I’m hung up on you,” he adds. “I thought it was embarrassingly obvious and you just weren’t mentioning it because it’s really pathetic and you didn’t want to have to deal with it.”

“Oh,” she says again. “Uh. No. That’s–I had no idea.” She wets her lips. “I still don’t really want to go out tonight? I was kind of excited to stay home and chill.”

“Yeah, I don’t really want to go anywhere either,” says Bellamy. He offers her a smile. “So, uh–can I come in?”

She fists her hands in his shirt, pulling him inside, and he’s laughing when she kisses him.

They can go out tomorrow. Tonight is definitely for staying in.


	29. 54. “I don’t hate you. I could never hate you. That’s the problem.”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oh, I lied, this one is post S2.

Clarke knew that leaving would destroy her relationship with Bellamy. She might have been planning on it, because she knew, somehow, that nothing else would do it. Bellamy was loyal to her in a way she wouldn’t have been able to understand, except that she feels the same way about him. 

He hadn’t left her, though. She left him, so she betrayed him, and he begged her not to, and it’s one more thing she has to live with, one more sin that keeps her up at night.

When she goes back, she’s sure she doesn’t expect him to forgive her. He wasn’t supposed to forgive her. But it still fucking  _hurts_ , in spite of everything.

Apparently there was still a part of her that was convinced she hadn’t ruined everything with him.

But he won’t look at her, won’t speak to her, avoids meeting her eyes, even when they do it automatically, unconsciously, the way they used to. He’ll half turn to her and look away before she can catch his eye.

This is what she wanted, she reminds herself. This is what she was expecting.

But they still have the 42 to take care of, and that’s still her responsibility until someone tells her otherwise. Until someone ties her down and takes them away from her, honestly. She left for herself, but she came back for them, and no one is going to take them away from her.

Except Bellamy. Bellamy could. He probably would, if he was willing to talk to her. But he’s not, so it’s still her job, and she’s going to make him talk to her.

It’s business, she tells herself as she goes to his tent. It’s business, and she’s looking out for her people. It has nothing to do with him. She doesn’t expect him to forgive her.

“I’m busy,” he says, without looking up from whatever he’s hunched over. “I told you, Miller–”

“Not Miller,” she says. “We need to talk.”

She watches the tension run up his back and spread to his shoulders, and bites her lip so hard it nearly bleeds.

“I’m busy,” he says again.

“I know you hate me. I don’t care that you hate me. I deserve it, I was–I know what I did to you. But I– _they_  need you to be able to work with me.” He’s not even looking at her, but she still has to look away from him. “I know I left, I know I don’t–I still want to take care of them. And I think we can still work together to do that. We’ve always been able to do that, whatever else is going on.”

He doesn’t respond for so long that she thinks he might just be pretending that she’s not there, that he can’t hear her. 

“It’s–” she starts, and he cuts her off.

“I don’t hate you, Clarke,” he says, and he sounds so fucking  _tired_. “I could never hate you. That’s the problem.”

It’s stupid and awful, given how awful he sounds, but Clarke feels her heart soar. She’s so fucking stupidly happy to hear him say it, and she crosses the tent, sits down next to him. He still looks exhausted, and she slides her arm around him, leaves it there until he finally relaxes, slumps against her.

“I’m sorry,” she tells him.

“I know.”

She leans her head against his. “You just didn’t want to hear it?”

He snorts. “I fucking hate how well you know me.”

“I know.” She wraps her other arm around him, holds on. “I thought everyone needed to hate me. I thought everyone but you already did, so–I had to make you hate me too.”

“I really tried,” he says. “I wanted to.”

“I did my best,” she says, and he snorts and presses his lips to her hair.

“I appreciate the effort.” His own arm wraps around her, firm and real. “Don’t leave again,” he says.

“I couldn’t.”

“Good.”

They sit in silence for a long moment, and then she says, “So, you’re busy. What are you busy with?”

She feels him smiling against her temple. “I’ll show you.”


	30. LINCOLN/OCTAVIA 60. “Before you decide to murder me, let me explain…”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And this one is a Linctavia modern AU! That's different.

Overall, it is not Clarke’s best scheme.

“I can’t believe I agreed to this,” Octavia mutters.

“It was a good plan!” Clarke protests.

“We’re stuck in the art supply closet. There’s a paper cutter digging into my kidney.”

Clarke squirms around so she can see Octavia’s back. “That’s not your kidney.”

“Thanks, that was really what I was worried about.” She kicks the door. “I’m going to miss class. And when my professor asks where I was, I’m going to say my sorority sister got me trapped in a closet as part of a stupid plan to supposedly get the better of our rival frat, but really she just wants to flirt with my stupid asshole brother!”

There’s a long pause, and then Clarke says, “I’m sensing some bitterness here, O.”

“We’re  _stuck in an art supply closet_.”

“Think of what a great story this will be.”

“Yeah, I’m going to tell all my nieces and nephews. Your stupid mom did not know how to deal with her crush on your stupid dad–”

“This is not about your brother,” Clarke says, which is a total lie. “This is about–”

Octavia assumes she’s going to say something about sorority pride or justice or some other dumb excuse, but all her kicking of the door seems to have worked, because it opens and she falls out of the closet and onto a very solid person.

It would be awesome, if he wasn’t scowling. Even through the confusion and irritation, he’s hot.

“Okay,” says Octavia. “Before you decide to murder me, let me explain. My friend–” She glances back, and Clarke is somehow already gone, which–seriously, Clarke? 

Then she gets a really good look at the guy she collided with, and it’s actually possible Clarke was trying to help. Or at least be a supportive wing-woman.

“I’m not planning to murder you,” he says, somewhat amused. “But I am curious about the explanation.”

“It’s a long story,” says Octavia. “There’s backstory. It’s kind of epic, honestly. Definitely not something I can just tell you here. We’re probably going to need dinner. Maybe a couple drinks. Are you free tonight?”

“Are you trying to turn being stuck in my closet into a dinner date?” he asks, but he still sounds way more amused than upset.

“Yeah. Is it working?”

He can’t help laughing and, yeah, it’s definitely working.


	31. 51. “What the hell are you wearing?”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Modern AU!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At this point I stopped being drunk.

The first time Clarke met Bellamy, she was convinced he was, if not a total asshole, then at least 85% asshole. There might have been some non-terrible parts of him, but they were eclipsed by his overall dickishness. Of course, she’d also first met him during her first week working at Jackson’s Java, and she basically thought everyone was at least 50% asshole, because, god, customer-facing jobs are the fucking  _worst_.

Still, Bellamy took the cake that week for having both two incredibly complicated coffee orders and a very finicky sandwich order, which included  _cutting the crusts off_ , and Clarke would have strangled him if Jackson hadn’t told her that their official policy was agree to any request the first time they got it and then raise it with a manager at the end of the day. So Clarke had smiled and gritted her teeth and agreed to everything, and when he’d given his name for the order, she noted it down for her growing shit-list. And then, when he came back and complained about his stupid coffees, she moved it to the top of her shit list. While correcting the (non-existent) errors. Because she’s a goddamn professional.

It would have been fine, probably, except he kept coming back, every week, like clockwork. 11:30 Saturday morning and Bellamy is in line, stupid messy hair and stupid freckles and stupid requests for overly sweet and complicated coffee orders and sandwiches with no crusts and, seriously, what kind of adult demands to have the crusts cut off of sandwiches? Part of growing up is just learning to fucking deal with crusts.

Her opinion of him changes slowly, once he stops just ordering things and starts chatting with her a little. He’s the first regular to learn her name, and she finds out some things about him too, mostly by accident: that he’s twenty-four and teaches high school, that is loves doing crosswords and is kind of cute when he’s concentrating of them. Kind of. Plus, he starts looking a little sheepish when he asks for ridiculous things, which helps a lot, and he’ll sometimes start their interactions with a weird complaint or observation about his life, like, “Did you know high-school students are hormonal assholes?” or “I swear to god, Clarke, if I never have to help make another Homecoming float, I will die happy.”

But it’s not until Halloween that she gives up and acknowledges that she _likes_  him. Likes him likes him. Has not only stopped hating him, but is actually fond of him.

He comes in at 11:30, as usual, and Clarke gapes at him while he glares for a full minute.

“What the hell are you wearing?” she asks, finally.

“It’s Halloween,” he grumbles. “It’s a  _costume._ You’re wearing cat ears, so you clearly understand the concept.”

“That’s–Beauty and the Beast, seriously? I honestly would have pegged you for the Beast. No offense, you’re very pretty, and yellow is definitely your color, but–”

“My baby sister,” he says. “She, uh, wanted to be the Beast. She thought the mask would be badass. And it is,” he adds quickly. “It’s fucking awesome, if I do say so myself. I’m great with paper mache.” He rubs the back of his neck. He even has a wig. He’s the prettiest princess she has ever seen. “Anyway, she’s got her karate class today, and they were all allowed to go in costume, and she wanted me to pick her up in costume too, so all her friends would be jealous.”

Clarke’s heart does not melt. Really. It just–mushifies a little. “Your baby sister?”

“Octavia. She’s ten. Our, uh–” He rubs the back of his neck. “Our mom died earlier this year, so I moved back here to take care of her. She’s uh–I don’t care about getting the crusts cut off my sandwiches or very specific placement of American cheese or whatever, but money’s pretty tight so this is kind of her treat for the week so I try to make it count.”

“You know, if you’d told me that sooner, I wouldn’t have been secretly spitting in all your drinks.”

He laughs. “Well, I didn’t want to play the dead mother card too soon.”

She raises her eyebrows. “That’s a card?”

“It’s kind of a double-edged sword. On the one hand, there’s the  _I’m a great guy for taking care of my sister after a horrible tragedy_  part.”

Clarke snorts. “Obviously.”

“But there’s also the  _I have a ten-year-old dependent_  side, and a lot of girls aren’t really into that.”

“So, you decided the best time to try to leverage your mother’s death into a date with me was when you were dressed as a Disney princess?”

“Decided is a strong word,” he says. “It just kind of happened. But, basically, yeah. I’m kind of hoping you’re into Disney princesses.”

“I did figured out I was bi because of Meg from Hercules, so–”

“That movie is so fucking inaccurate,” he grumbles, and then blushes. “I mean, uh. Whatever helped you with your sexuality. Or. God, this is going really badly, isn’t it?”

She bites her lip, trying not to smile too widely. “Really badly. Did you have a plan for this hypothetical date? It sounds like a trainwreck. I’m in.”

The next night, he makes sandwiches for dinner (with the crusts cut off) and they hang out on his couch and watch Beauty and the Beast while his sister does her homework upstairs. It is absolutely the weirdest date Clarke has ever been on, and she can’t wait for the next one.


	32. 71. "Kiss me, quick!"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brittany: i like how your chapter summaries of you can sing me anything slowly devolve into just attitude/screaming haha  
>  me: right?  
> I just don't care about them at all

“Kiss me, quick!”

Bellamy blinks at Clarke, but she’s staring up at him, all intense urgency, and he does understand all the words in her sentence, so he leans down and presses his mouth against hers.

She’s his best friend. Of course he’s going to kiss her if she asks. Because–friendship. And stuff. She would obviously only ask him if there was a good reason. And he complies because he is obviously a good friend. No ulterior motives at all.

Of course, she also didn’t give him a lot of additional information, so he’s not sure exactly what she’s looking for from the kiss. He tries to keep it quick and chaste, mostly platonic. Not that he’s ever kissed any of his other friends, but, in theory. If there were platonic kisses, this would be one.

But she grabs his shirt when he tries to pull back and slides her tongue against his lips, so apparently they are making out. For reasons still unknown.

He can live with that.

When she finally lets him go, her hair is a mess from his hands and her lips are swollen. 

His voice is more than a little raw when he asks, “So, what was that? Hiding from an ex? Lost a bet with Raven?”

She beams at him, and it’s very distracting. “Nope. I just wanted you to kiss me. Like, immediately.”

He lets out a surprised laugh, feeling a grin spread over his own face. “Seriously?”

“I was thinking about asking you out and having this long stupid conversation about feelings or whatever, but–that sounded like a pain. This way seemed way more efficient.”

“Way more,” he agrees. He leans back down. “Hey, Clarke, I need you to kiss me. Quick.”

“Sounds like a real emergency,” she says, and kisses him again.


	33. 96. “I never thought you’d hurt me but I was wrong. You hurt me the most.”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> it's a modern AU

Bellamy’s life fell apart when he was nineteen.

It had been going pretty well until then; sophomore in college, awesome girlfriend, great prospects.

And then his mom died, and everything else in his life stopped mattering. He had a responsibility to take care of his sister, and he was going to fulfill it.

Ten years later, he can admit that he handled the entire thing incredibly badly. The Octavia side was good, he raised her, got her through college, and she’s a well-adjusted human. Well, as much as she can be.

But he deleted his Facebook profile, ignored all the calls he got from his friends.

Was a real fucking asshole to Clarke.

He thinks about her sometimes, guiltily. They’d only been together for eight months, but he’d really liked her. She was sharp and quick, gorgeous, and he hadn’t quite believed it when she agreed to date him. They’d been good together, but he didn’t know how to make her deal with all his shit, so he’d just cut and run. 

He never expected to see her again, and he’d regretted that, in a lot of ways. He wished he could see her again, apologize, explain. And, sometimes, he even hoped he could make it work, because–he liked her so much. And she’d liked him too.

But still, when his boss comes over and says, “And this is Bellamy, he’s going to be training you,” and the woman he’s with is obviously Clarke, he’s less relieved and more fucking terrified. She is looking right through him, back ramrod straight. “Bellamy, this is Clarke. She’s our newest editor.”

He stands, rubs his hands on his jeans. “Um. Hi.”

“Hi,” she says. Her eyes are the coldest thing he’s ever seen.

“Clarke, let me know if there’s anything else you need.”

She worries her lip, like she’s thinking about protesting, and Bellamy does it for her. “Um, Marcus, there isn’t–could someone else train her?”

Marcus does not look amused. “Why would someone else train her?”

“It’s fine,” says Clarke. “Thank you, Mr. Kane.”

“Marcus,” he corrects, and leaves them alone.

Bellamy and Clarke stare at each other, and he starts saying, “Clarke, I–” at the same time she says, “Training.” She’s a lot more firm about it than he is, and he swallows hard.

“Training,” he agrees.

She treats him with cold, polite courtesy. She never mentions their past, never alludes to it, and is completely professional with him. But–he keeps seeing her with other people, laughing, smiling, and it fucking sucks. He’d say he wants to be friends with her again, but it’s not even true.

He wants her back, honestly. Even though he knows it makes him the biggest asshole of all time. He still wants her, after all these years.

But she clearly doesn’t feel the same way, and she shouldn’t. So he keeps quiet, doesn’t push her boundaries.

And then it’s the Christmas party, and she’s drunk, leaning into his side with her arms around him, sniffling. He’s a little drunk too, so he wraps his arm around her shoulder, a poor attempt at comfort. It’s strangely familiar, muscle memory of having her close to him, and it makes something in him ache.

“Why are you here?” she asks, and he opens his mouth to reply, but she sniffles again. “Actually, no. Why did you  _leave_? You were–I was so stupid in love with you, and you didn’t care at all. You just disappeared and ignored me and, god, Bellamy–”

“I’m sorry,” he says. 

“I never thought you’d hurt me but I was wrong. You hurt me the most.”

He pulls her closer. “I know. I’m so fucking–I thought about calling you a thousand times, but I didn’t know what to say, and then I thought–I didn’t deserve to have you forgive me.”

“Did you have a good excuse?”

He bites his lip. “No a good enough one, but–my mom died, and I got custody of my little sister. She was fourteen, so–four years of high school and then college for her before I could really think about being my own person.” He can’t help resting his cheek on her hair. “I should have told you, but I didn’t know how. I just–I didn’t want you to break up with me, I couldn’t take that. So I never gave you the chance.”

“You’re a dick.”

“I know.”

“And an idiot.”

“I know.”

“You should have told me.”

“I know. I’m so fucking sorry, Clarke.” He tugs her closer. “I really–I get that you can’t forgive me.”

“I can.”

“What?”

“I can forgive you.  _My mom died and everything sucked and I was nineteen_ isn’t actually a bad excuse. And–it’s actually kind of hard staying mad at you. I still like you.”

His mouth is dry. “I still like you too,” he says.

He can’t actually believe she means it like he does, even as they become friends again, even as she laughs with him and bumps her shoulder against his, sticks around when he works late so they can leave together. He can’t believe it until she punches him in the arm as they’re walking home and says, “I figured you were going to ask me out. You asked me out last time.”

He opens and closes his mouth a few times and says, “Uh, do you want to get dinner with me?”

She links their fingers together and squeezes. “Well, if you insist.”


	34. BELLAMY/CLARKE 53. “Who crawls through someone’s window at 4am to go for ice cream?!”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> this one has octavia!

Bellamy was planning to tell his sister he was dating her best friend.

Really. It was on his to-do list. He was going to get to it any day. It was just–she’s going to be so smug about it. He wasn’t looking forward to it.

On the other hand, that would have been an improvement over her waking him up in the middle of the night by shouting, “Oh my god, Bell!”

He startles awake, sitting up as Clarke groans. “What the fuck, O? What are you doing here?”

“What is  _Clarke_  doing here?”

“I was sleeping,” Clarke grumbles, scowling impotently at the entire universe. “Seriously, it’s four a.m., how did you even get in?”

“The window,” says Octavia. “I wanted ice cream. What is happening here?”

“We’re dating,” Bellamy says. “Surprise.” He finds Clarke’s shirt and gives it to her. “We were going to tell you,” he adds. “In a normal way. But–who crawls through someone’s window at 4am to go for ice cream? You’re lucky I was even here!”

“You’re secretly dating my roommate! You don’t get to act like I’m the weird one here!”

“You literally broke into your brother’s second-floor apartment to make him buy you ice cream in the middle of the night,” says Clarke. “We definitely should have told you, but there is no way we’re the weirdest ones here.”

There’s a long pause, and then Octavia says, “Okay, fine. But you guys are paying for my ice cream. And I’m leaving through the door. That tree has really rough bark.”

Bellamy tugs on his jeans and slings his arm around his sister. “I guess it’s the least we can do after you broke, entered, and scared the shit out of us.”

“That’s what I’m saying.” She pauses. “She’s treating you right?”

“She is.”

“You’re happy?”

“I am.”

“Okay. I want one of those fancy Ben and Jerry’s flavors. With cookie chunks. For my trauma.”

He rolls his eyes. “Of course you do.”


	35. 66. “The only thing I want is you.”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The next one is NOT gonna be a modern AU, just you wait.

If it was him, Bellamy wouldn’t have gone to his ex-girlfriend’s wedding in the first place, but Clarke has this issue where she refuses to ever back down from anything. So if her ex invites her to a wedding, she will go, and she will be fucking  _happy_ , and she will show everyone how well she is doing.

And she’ll drag Bellamy with her, because if Clarke needs backup, he will always be there for her.

“So, how painful is this?” he asks, sipping his champagne. At least the booze is good. “Scale of one to ten.”

“Three, and that’s just my heels,” she says. “Why would it be painful?”

“I don’t know, Lexa’s getting married, she broke your heart, now she’s happy and you’re all alone?”

“Wow. It wasn’t painful before, but when you put it like  _that_ –”

He laughs. “I’m just saying, I would not have come to this if I were you.”

“Lexa and I made our peace,” says Clarke. “I mean–the breakup was awful, but it wasn’t like she didn’t make some good points. I wasn’t the best girlfriend to her either.”

“How are you so well-adjusted?” he grumbles. “All my breakups have been–”

“Barely existent? I didn’t even know you were dating Roma when you told me you guys broke up. I thought she was into Murphy, honestly.”

“Okay,” he says. “Fine. But they’ve all been awkward.” Most of them have involved the girl telling him he’s in love with Clarke, and then patting him on the shoulder in a vaguely patronizing way. Which–it’s not like he doesn’t know he’s in love with Clarke, they really didn’t have to tell him. But Clarke’s not in love with him, so here they are.

“That’s because you’re secretly awkward.”

“Thanks.”

She leans her head against his shoulder. “They look happy, don’t they?”

“Yeah. Good for them, I guess.”

“We broke up two years ago, you can stop righteously hating her on my behalf.”

“Nope. Anyone hurts you, I righteously hate them until the end of time. That’s how best friends work.”

Clarke laughs softly. “I guess I can’t actually argue with that. Thanks for coming with me.”

“Any time.”

She’s still leaning against him when Lexa comes over. Bellamy’s never seen a happy bride look so severe, but, hey, it’s her wedding, she can do what she wants. She looks down at Clarke’s hand, linked in Bellamy’s, and then back at Clarke’s face.

“Would it be rude of me to say I told you so?” Lexa asks.

“A little bit,” says Clarke. “Congratulations. I’m so happy for the both of you.”

“Thank you. I’m happy for you too.”

“Thanks.”

“Did I miss something?” he asks, when she leaves.

“Huh?”

“What did she tell you?”

Clarke shakes her head. “A lot of things. Our breakup did involve a lot of yelling and throwing stuff.”

“This is why I haven’t forgiven her, by the way.”

“I know.” She tugs his hand. “Come on, we’re dancing.”

They’ve done this a thousand times before, at school dances and weddings and Octavia’s party, and they slot into each other’s arms as easily as puzzle pieces. 

“You haven’t really dated since you broke up with her,” he says, even though it feels like dangerous territory. If she’s not upset about this wedding, he doesn’t want her to start. But–he is a little worried it’s going to hit her in three weeks and she’ll turn into a crying mess on his couch. Better to spread the pain out. “That’s why I was worried. I thought you were maybe–holding out hope.”

She laughs softly. “No. Not at all.”

“Not at all.”

Her fingers twitch against his neck, toying with the hair at his neck, making him shiver a little. “When she broke up with me, she said I loved you more than I was ever going to love her. And I thought it was–I mean, it wasn’t exactly true, but I couldn’t imagine loving her  _more_. But I figured I didn’t have to, I could just love you different ways. Except–she was right.”

Bellamy tugs her a little closer, without even realizing it. He doesn’t know what to say; he finally chokes out, “So, you don’t want her.”

“The only thing I want is you.” She pauses. “And, you know, maybe for her to think that I’d gotten my act together and you felt the same, so I let her think we were dating, but–”

Bellamy leans in to kiss her, and she’s only surprised for a second before she kisses back, and he’s smiling too hard to keep it up for more than a second.

“You could have just told me,” he says. 

“I did tell you.”

“You could have told me not at your ex-girlfriend’s wedding. After you asked me to be your platonic date.”

“Where’s the fun in that?” she asks, grinning, and he kisses her again.

“You just wanted me to make out with you in front of Lexa.”

“Not  _just_ ,” she says, and he can’t really object, not even a little.


	36. FWB smut!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Modern AU, explicit content!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a bunch of these I forgot to update, so here's another rush. Going to try to just add them as I write them from here, but who knows if that'll happen.

It starts when he strikes out with this gorgeous redhead. Clarke claps him on the back and says, “It’s probably because you’re so ugly.”

“You’re a good friend,” he says.

“I’m the best friend,” she agrees. “I’m such a good friend I’ll blow you. To make you feel better.”

He chokes on his drink. “Sorry, what?” She cannot possibly have said that. It was something else. Something that rhymes with blow. Show, maybe. She’ll show him–something. A funny cat meme or something. That’s what friends do when their friends get shot down. Not–

“I’ll suck your dick,” Clarke says, thumping him on the back. “Since no one else is going to.”

“Uh. Why?”

“Why not?”

It’s the sort of question that both is and is not valid. On the one hand, Bellamy has never in his life tried to stop someone from sucking his dick. Well, okay, once, in college, because the girl was so drunk she could barely function, and she fell asleep in the middle of the discussion, but aside from that. In general, he is pro-people-sucking-his-dick.

On the other hand, it seems like there must be a compelling reason Clarke should not suck his dick. Like the fact that they’re friends, and this is not really how friends work, in his experience. He’s failed to hook up with people plenty of times before, and none of his other friends have ever offered to suck him off.

On a third hand, it’s  _Clarke_ , and she is his number one choice for people to suck his dick in the entire universe, so–on the fourth hand, that’s probably a good reason to shut this down.

There are way too many hands involved in this.

Clarke props her head on his shoulder. “Come on, it’ll be fun. I’m great at blowjobs.”

On the fifth hand, there is  _no fucking way_  he is saying no to her. He finishes his drink and shrugs. “Well, if you’re great at them.”

His place is closer than hers, and she doesn’t even wait to get to his room. She shoves him up against the door, tugs his jeans and boxers down, and slides smoothly onto her knees.

“God, you have a nice dick,” she says, the same way she’s complimented his hands and his freckles and his hair.

“Thanks?”

“It’s going to feel so good in my mouth,” she adds, conversational, wrapping her fingers lightly around him, and he was already half hard, but that’s enough to get him all the way and then some. She leans in, swirls her tongue around the head, tastes the slit. He groans and lets his head drop against the door, and she grins. “Feel free to pull my hair or whatever, if you’re into that.”

“So, you’re into that, but you don’t just want to say it,” he says, trying for amused, but not quite getting there. Her  _mouth_  is on his  _dick_.

She doesn’t respond, just slides her mouth down, taking him in, and he does tangle his hand in her hair, because he has definitely had fantasies that start like this, and if she wants to let him live them, he is really not going to object.

She doesn’t take him more than half in, but she uses her hands to work the base of his dick, and she’s so good with her tongue it’s hard to really think about things she isn’t doing.

He barely remembers to warn her when he’s about to come, he’s so into what she’s doing, but he gives her hair a gentle warning tug, and she just hums and tugs his balls, so he figures she’s good with him coming in her mouth.

She swallows, wipes her mouth with her arm, and grins up at him. “Better?”

He has to take a minute to recover. “Uh, yeah. I can, uh–what do you–”

“It’s fine,” she says. “I didn’t get totally shot down.” She picks up her purse, slides on her jacket, and pecks him on the cheek. “See you later, Bell.”

*

Part of him, the part that has been halfway in love with Clarke since she punched a guy who was hitting on Octavia before he got there, wants to mention it. Part of him wants to say something like, “Hey, that blowjob? That was great. Let’s do that more, and I get to do you too, and then we can snuggle and you make fun of my Netflix queue.”

But she isn’t mentioning it, so it would probably not go well for him. It would just make things awkward. And if the blowjob didn’t do that, he should probably let it go. It’s a gift. He has jerkoff fantasies for the rest of his life, and he knows what Clarke’s mouth feels like on his dick. That’s not nothing.

Two weeks after the blowjob, she flops down in the stool next to him at the bar. “Have you ever been hitting on a girl, and you finally make a move, but she’s straight and has a boyfriend and just thought you wanted hair care tips?”

“Not exactly that, but close.”

She sighs and drops her head on his shoulder. “She was cute, too.”

He pats her. “Sorry. I’ve been close enough to there.” And then, because it reminds him of the blowjob, because literally  _everything_  reminds him of the blowjob, he says, “Do you want me to help you out?”

“What?”

“You got shot down. Last time I got shot down, you sucked my dick. So, you know. I could return the favor, if you really want to get laid tonight.”

She considers, and then nods, and Bellamy nearly falls off his stool. “I do want to get laid tonight. Come on.”

She drags him to the bathroom and he gets her off with his fingers up her skirt, biting her neck so hard he hopes the marks will actually be permanent. She gasps and moans and comes apart against his hand, and then she straightens her clothes, checks the hickey, and says, “Were you a catfish in a previous life?”

“Vacuum cleaner,” he says.

She nods. “That was my second guess.”

And then she’s gone.

*

It keeps going like that. Bellamy stops actually trying to hook up, he just chats with a girl for a while, makes excuses, and then tells Clarke it didn’t work out. He feels bad, but not bad enough to not do it. He’s not technically lying to her, and he never  _asks_  her to hook up, not when he’s the one who’s saying he got turned down. She always offers, and when she gets shot down, she doesn’t even wait for him to offer himself, just says, “Well, he was not a good prospect, you want to fuck me?” or “Yeah, she decided she’s not into girls, come eat me out.” Unless they actually have sex, only one of them ever gets off, and no one ever spends the night. It’s a casual sexual relationship.

With the girl he’s kind of in love with.

After two months, he thinks it’s probably about time to mention it. Because–it’s the best sex of his life, and she seems to like it, and there’s no good reason they’re not dating, right? She likes him, he likes her, he wants to map every inch of her skin with his tongue.

He just needs to figure out what to say.

He’s got her pressed against her door, fucking her fast and hard, when she gasps, “You know what I was talking to that girl about?”

“What?” he asks, biting her jaw. They haven’t said kissing isn’t okay, but she’s never kissed him, and he feels weird being the first one to do it. So he just bites her. A lot.

“Art history.”

“Might be why she didn’t go home with you.”

She huffs a laugh and digs her fingers into his shoulders. “I wasn’t trying, Bellamy.”

His heart stops, but somehow his hips don’t. Mostly because he thinks Clarke might kill him if he did. “I haven’t been trying for like a month,” he admits.

She laughs softly, tilts his chin up so she can look at him. “So we could have been having sex in a bed for a month?”

They’re both still mostly dressed; he just shoved her underwear down and her skirt up and pushed his own jeans down. Her hair is coming out of her ponytail and she’s smiling and it really should not be romantic at all, but–he wants it to be.

“We could have been having sex in a bed for  _years_ ,” he admits, and kisses her. Fucking  _finally_.

*

The next night, Clarke sits down next to him and says, “So, do you come here often?”

Bellamy has to laugh. “Way too much, yeah.”

She nods. “And if I said you had a beautiful body, would you hold it against me?”

“It’s like you’re actually trying to convince me to turn you down.”

“What’s the moon pants one?”

Bellamy laughs and kisses her. “Hey, do you want me to eat you out in the bathroom?”

“That is so uncreative. You’re not even trying.”

“Fine. Are those astronaut pants? Because your ass is out of this world.”

“I’m wearing a skirt. For easy access.” She grins. “But that’s acceptable. You have now picked me up in the bar.”

“Which was an important rite of passage for this relationship.”

“Very. And now you’re going to take me home, put me in bed, and eat me out until my legs stop working.”

“That is the best pickup line I’ve ever heard.”

She grins. “Well, I did stop getting girls because I stopped trying,” she says, and tugs him back of the bar towards home.


	37. Paint Twister smut!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Camp counselors AU, also explicit content.

The problem with playing any game with Bellamy is that she never, under any circumstances, is willing to give up. Given the choice between forfeiting a game to Bellamy and literally dying of starvation, Clarke would, without question or hesitation, die.

She knows this is irrational. She knows this is a terrible life choice. She still can’t help it. They’ve been playing this stupid game for hours; everyone else went to sleep long before, so it’s just her and him, in the middle of the night, playing fucking Twister. And she is not going to be the first to say she’s done.

“Your spin,” says Bellamy. He’s arched over her, one of his arms twisted under him at a horrifically uncomfortable angle, covered in paint.

The paint had been Raven’s idea. She claimed it would make it more exciting, but from what Clarke can tell, it’s mostly stickier. And, okay, a little more distracting, because Bellamy has this smudge of paint right across his nose, and it’s fucking  _adorable._ Bellamy is not allowed to be adorable. He’s her rival. He’s not cute.

“Right hand blue,” she says, craning her neck to find a spot. Bellamy’s right arm is the twisted one, so it’s good for him, unfortunately.

They go for the same spot and the same time, and their hands collide. Clarke’s mostly under him, and she realizes in the same second she looks up at him that he’s on top of her, pressed against her, and he’s staring back.

Her hand slips and that’s it–she falls onto the mat and he crashes down on top of her.

“Fuck!” she says. “God, why did we agree to the paint thing? My back is fucking–” She wiggles a little, trying to keep from getting paint all over herself, but she’s pretty sure it’s a lot cause.

“Clarke,” says Bellamy, and she looks up at him. He’s still watching her, and it’s gotten too dark to really make out his expression, but she can still see the stupid paint on his face, and that his eyes are steady.

She swallows. “Are you going to get off me?” she asks. Her voice stays steady, because she’s  _awesome_. She can be normal.

“Honestly? I really don’t want to.”

And then he kisses her.

According to the rest of the counselors, this has been coming for years, ever since Clarke got hired three summers back. They were all convinced Clarke and Bellamy’s stupid rivalry was based entirely on unresolved sexual tension, which was bullshit. They’re both totally stubborn assholes, and they’d keep being assholes even if they fucked.

But she has to admit, she does want to fuck him.

He kisses her slower than she expected, careful, like he thinks she needs convincing. His hands are braced by the sides of her head, keeping him up, and when she opens her mouth for him, he doesn’t slide his tongue in right away. She makes a frustrated noise against him and does it herself, sliding her tongue past his lips to stroke his. He groans, apparently satisfied, and suddenly it’s as much of a fight as everything else they do, just like she wanted.

Her hand tangles in her hair and then sticks there, and she breaks off, laughing. He groans and drops his face against her shoulder. “Shit. I forgot about the paint.”

“We’re a mess.”

“And not even in a good way.” He wets his lips and looks at her. “Want to go jump in the lake?”

“The lake? Seriously?”

“I’d rather fuck you in the lake than the showers. We’d get splinters. And they’re fucking dark. Lake is romantic.”

Clarke has to smile. “You going to romance me?”

“I did beat you at Twister. It’s the least I can do.”

“Whatever, you would have fallen over a second after I did if I hadn’t.”

“Yeah, but you fell down first, so–”

She untangles her hand from his hair carefully, grinning at the way the paint is making a matted, tangled mess of his curls. “So, shut up and come to the lake.”

There aren’t any campers around–they new batch is coming tomorrow, which is why they were having a party in the first place–and all the other counselors are asleep, so it’s quite and deserted as the two of them head down to the lake. It’s been hours since Clarke had anything to drink, but she still feels giddy; she tries to tell herself it’s residual alcohol and not just Bellamy.

“You really think the lake’ll get this stuff out?” she asks.

“If it doesn’t, we’re just gonna be paint-y for a while,” he says, tugging off his shirt. She’s seen him shirtless plenty of times, he’s life-guard certified and spends most of the summer making sure none of the campers drown, but she still can’t help running her hands up his chest. She’s been admiring his abs for way too long to not touch them at the first opportunity. “You could wait until we’re in the water,” he teases, leaning down to kiss her neck. “But full points for enthusiasm.” He slides his hands under her shirt and tugs it off, and he tries to grope her, but she jumps away, laughing.

“God, I don’t want to scrub paint off my bra,” she says, unhooking it and taking it off, and then shedding her shorts and underwear while she’s at it. She’s not sure how much he can really see in the dark, but he’s definitely staring, and she feels a rush of arousal, thinking about what he’s going to do to her. “I’m going to wash off, you coming?”

He gets with the program, kicking off his shorts and boxers and following her into the water. It’s still warm out, but not hot, and the water is a little chilly. “Fuck,” she says, as a shiver runs up her spine. “Not our best plan.”

“Definitely our best plan,” Bellamy says, trapping her up against the dock for another long kiss. His hands are on her breasts, large and rough, and when she shivers this time, it’s for a totally different reason. “Fuck, Clarke,” he breathes, scraping his teeth against her shoulder. His dick is hard and hot against her thigh, and she cannot for the life of her remember why it took them so long to do this. She should have just admitted it. She should have fucking jumped him.

“Can’t fuck, no condoms,” she says.

“We’ll figure something out.”

“You’re not putting your paint-y fingers in me either,” she says, grinding against his leg. 

He laughs. “Okay, fine. So get up on the dock.”

“Dock?” she asks. He’s tugging her earlobe with his teeth and it’s making it hard to think.

“You’ll be just the right height for me to eat you out,” he says. “No paint in my mouth.”

She can’t scramble out of the water fast enough. He ducks into the water, scrubbing his hand through his hair to dislodge the paint before it hardens, she assumes, and then pops back up once she’s settled.

“You know how long I’ve been wanting to do this?” he asks, kissing behind her knee and then dragging his mouth up her leg, making her shiver again.

“This exact thing?” she asks. “Eating me out in the middle of the night at the lake while we’re both covered in paint?”

“It’s like you read my diary,” he says, and swirls his tongue around her clit, making her hips jerk. It’s been way too long, and he’s as good at this as he is at everything, all hot, wet mouth and teasing tongue, winding her up and letting her down, driving her slowly crazy.

She fists her hand in his hair again, canting her hips up, desperate for something inside her.

“Not allowed to get paint in you, remember?” he asks pulling back enough to smirk. His mouth is slick in the moonlight, and Clarke lets go of his hair so she can groan and fall back on the dock.

“Fuck. You can use your tongue, right?”

He laughs. “You’re so fucking pushy,” he teases, fond, but when he goes back, he’s licking inside her, pushing his tongue as deep as it will go, like he’s trying to taste every part of her.

She checks her own left hand, finds it clean enough, and slides it down so she can work her clit herself, using her right to tease her breast. It’s unreal, how good it feels, and when she comes, it’s with his name on her lips.

She lies on the dock in dazed silence for a long minute, until she realizes she’s wet and it’s kind of chilly, and he’s still in the water with a hard-on.

“Sorry,” she says, vaguely. “Just–basking. Fuck, it’s freezing.”

“It’s not,” he says amused. “The wind is just blowing. Get back in the water, you’ll feel better.”

“You just want me to jerk you off.”

“I don’t  _just_  want you to jerk me off,” he says. She looks up at that, and he’s looking weirdly bashful, given he just had his tongue inside her. “I’m, uh–I’m hoping you’ll date me too.”

She slides back into the water and presses against him for a long kiss. “Get the paint off your hands and we’ll talk.”


	38. BELLAMY/CLARKE 60. “Before you decide to murder me, let me explain…”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> College AU! Another take on this prompt, woo.

Bellamy hates his Tuesday morning psych class. It’s the worst part of his week, every week, and when it’s done all he wants to do is go back to his room and blow shit up on his computer until he feels better about his life.

But he gets back to his dorm and there’s a girl coming out of his bathroom. Which–okay, the bathroom is shared between his room and the one next door, so it’s possible the guy next door hooked up with someone and she accidentally came into the wrong room. But given the girl’s frozen, deer-in-headlights expression of total guilt, Bellamy kind of suspects there’s something else going on.

And then she says, “Before you decide to murder me, let me explain.”

He cocks his head at her. “I usually maim for the first offense.”

“Oh good, I was worried you’d be unreasonable,” she says, with a wry smile he can’t help returning. It’s hard to object to finding a cute blonde in his room.

“Well, you haven’t given me the explanation yet either. I’m pretty curious.”

“How well do you know the guy next door?”

“Not really at all. I’ve seen him a couple times? Finn, right?”

“Yeah. We were–kind of dating. It was pretty new. I, uh, spent the night last night. He had an early class so he was gone when I woke up, and I went to check my email on his computer and–he left Facebook open? And he was talking to his girlfriend.”

“Ouch.”

“Yeah. Apparently he thought they were on the verge of breaking up so it was, like–” She waves her hand. “He felt morally okay fucking me or whatever, but she was messaging him, like, I miss you, we can work it out, and–who the fuck leaves their Facebook open with messages from their actual girlfriend when they sleep with someone else? I wasn’t even fucking snooping, I just wanted to see if my biology partner sent me her notes for our lab!”

Bellamy’s trying not to smile because it really is shitty of the guy next door, but the girl is seriously adorable. Especially when she’s worked up. “That’s pretty bad, yeah.”

“Anyway, I sent her a message to let her know what was happening and we started talking, but then I heard the door and kind of panicked, and I didn’t want to talk to him so I ran into the bathroom, and hid for a few minutes until I realized I could get out through your room if it was unlocked. Which, uh, basically brings us to now.”

“That’s a pretty good reason to hide in my room,” he says. “I’m Bellamy, by the way. Sorry about your shitty morning.”

“I mean, we’d been on two dates and slept together once, it wasn’t like I was in true love or anything. Better to find out now before I got really attached. And his girlfriend is really cool. I’m going to friend her when I get home.”

Bellamy snorts. “Heartwarming. Like the sisterhood of the traveling douchebag.”

“Did you really just reference a young adult girl book?”

“What, guys can’t read–” He breaks. “Okay, I haven’t actually read that one, but I have a little sister. And I’ve read a lot of them. Hunger Games is pretty badass.”

The girl laughs. “Anyway. I will get out of your hair. I just was failing at figuring out where to go. My room, obviously, but–I don’t want Finn to come find me once he sees what I was doing on Facebook.”

“You can hang out here if you want,” he offers. “I’m not doing anything. You can even check your email on my computer.”

“Why?”

“Why not?” He grins. “Not to be a creep, but having a cute girl hanging out in my room for a couple hours really isn’t a hardship. And there is absolutely nothing incriminating on my laptop, so–”

“Oh, no way,” says the girl. “Everyone has something incriminating on their laptops. Where’s your porn?”

“Who downloads porn? I just watch it online, like a normal person.”

“Seriously, there’s no way. Give me your computer, I’m going to find something.”

“Tell me your name first,” he says. And that’s how he ends up spending his afternoon with Clarke Griffin, sophomore, pre-med, watching her poke around his laptop for embarrassing shit, with both of them missing a class due to totally failing to pay attention to the time. He can’t bring himself to care much. It was a boring class anyway.

In the end, she gives up, because none of the stuff she finds actually embarrasses him–all of his childhood pictures are adorable, he owns his enjoyment of every romantic comedy on his iTunes account, and he already told her he went to porn sites, so it’s not like he cares that she finds them in his search history– and says, “Fine, you’re squeaky clean. Want to get dinner?”

They run into his neighbor on the way out; Clarke tucks herself against Bellamy’s side and keeps walking, leaving the other dude vaguely flummoxed in their wake.

“You’re probably going to have to deal with that eventually,” he points out.

“Yeah, but why ruin an awesome day, right?”

He grins. “Right.”


	39. 77. “There was never a choice.”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Very poorly defined space AU!

“That was a stupid fucking risk!”

Bellamy crosses his arms, not giving a fucking inch. “It was a calculated risk. And it worked.”

“And what if it hadn’t? I’m not more important than–”

“Don’t tell me how to do my job.” His jaw works. In the two years since Clarke hired Bellamy on as her pilot, they’ve gotten to be friends. Partners even. There’s no one she trusts as much as she trusts him, and she knows he would have had trouble, leaving her to die.

But there’s a war to win, and he should have thought it through.

“I’m not your job, Bellamy. There are other people depending on you–”

“Are you done?” His face twists up in something like a smile. “You didn’t even thank me.”

“Of course I didn’t! You might have gotten yourself killed, you might have screwed up the mission, I–” She lets out a deep breath. “I’m glad I’m alive, of course I’m glad I’m alive, but you made the wrong choice.”

He stares at her, defiant, and Clarke feels her heart speed up as he just keeps looking at her.

“There was never a choice, Clarke,” he says finally, soft. “I never even considered not going. I’d never consider not going after you. So you can stop lecturing me, because it’s never going to–” He looks away. “I can’t not, okay? I can’t.”

It’s not even that much of a surprise, not really, but it still knocks the wind out of her. It’s the kind of thing they don’t talk about, what they mean to each other. She tries not to even think about it. They have planets to liberate, people to look out for. They have things to do, and he’s supposed to get that.

But Clarke guesses, if it was him, she wouldn’t have a choice either. No matter the risk, no matter the cost, she doesn’t think she could leave him.

“Okay,” she says, just as soft. “I get it, I–” She wraps her arms around him, lets the tension drain out of her body. She was scared, and he came for her. He shouldn’t have, but he did, he always will, and that’s–it’s stupid and wrong but it makes her so fucking happy it’s unreal. “Thanks for coming to get me.”

He holds onto her just as tight. “Yeah,” he says. “Always.”


	40. 87. “You were never just my friend.”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Who has two thumbs and is doing drunk prompt fills again? This girl!

Clarke never expected to run into Bellamy Blake again. They were really good friends for a single semester her junior year of college, when they were both studying abroad in Italy, and it was one of those intense, proximity-and-time-based relationships, where they stayed up late drinking cheap wine and talking about everything. She’s pretty sure if they had just had another month, they would have slept together, become more, but–well, they didn’t. They went home to separate colleges on separate sides of the country, and remained friends in the conventional way: Facebook. At some point, he stopped updating or liking anything she did, and she mostly forgot about him.

And then she literally bumps into him at a bar.

She recognizes him instantly, broad shoulders, smattering of freckles, even though his hair has gotten longer and gone curly, and he’s older. He’s still beautiful, like he was, but he’s grown more defined, more real, almost.

Clarke might already be a little drunk.

“Bellamy, holy shit!”

He stares at her for a second before his face breaks out in a wide grin, and he wraps one arm around her for a half-hug. “Griffin? What the hell are you doing here?”

“Got a job here! Just moved. Do you live here?”

He laughs. “I do live here. How many have you had?”

“A few. I don’t know anyone here, so I’m drinking until I stop feeling awkward.”

“Well, now you know me, so why don’t you come hang out and meet my friends and maybe take a break from drinking?”

“You never told me to take a break from drinking before.”

“I’m older and wiser,” he says, steering her toward a table with his arm around her shoulders. “Come on, let’s get you some friends.”

*

Clarke doesn’t know what she was expecting from friendship with Bellamy. Well, really, she never expected anything, because she didn’t think they’d see each other again. But she had thought about him, in passing, and when she’d thought about him, she’d thought–honestly, she’d mostly thought about meeting him somewhere and becoming overcome with lust and then a night of passion would ensue. But it’s the kind of thing she tends to think about with a vibrator between her legs, not a realistic estimate for their future interactions.

And it’s not like the lust isn’t there now that they’re hanging out again, but–well, she was drunk, and she got distracted meeting his friends, and he was making sure no one took advantage of her, which was sweet, but also meant that he wasn’t taking advantage of her either, so that was kind of it.

She gets to know him, and tells herself that’s enough. And  _is_ nice. He’s a teacher, he hangs out with his sister, the one she remembers him telling her he practically raised, and a few friends from college, and he’s single. It all still feels like it should add up to Clarke getting beyond laid, but instead they’re–friends. Good friends! Amazingly good friends. And it’s cool. Honestly, it is.

Except for the whole thing where she wants to know what his freckles taste like. Which is not a traditionally platonic thing. And he seems to have no similar feelings about any part of her skin. And she accepts it, but it kind of sucks.

And then  _he_  gets drunk.

She hadn’t really noticed he didn’t get drunk before that; he drank, but he never seemed that affected, and she thought maybe he just didn’t show his tipsiness anymore. Maybe he’d grown up and stopped drinking to excess. People did that, right?

But then he has a shitty day–”I fucking hate standardized testing, Clarke, fucking  _hate_   _it_.”–and he gets actually, really drunk. And affectionate.

Like, giant, drunk cat affectionate.

“You’re so–” he says, with his mouth full of her hair. “You’re so the best.”

“So the best?” she asks, amused. She’s tipsy, but not drunk, so she gets to feel superior. “Thanks, valley girl.”

“God, I saw you, and you were like–you smell like flowers.”

“Uh huh.”

“I should have kissed you. Every day we were in Italy I should have kissed you and I didn’t and every day you’re here and I’m still not kissing you.”

“You’re eating my hair,” she says, warm. “I think that’s, like, shortstop. If we’re talking bases.” She scratches his hair, and smiles when he leans into it and makes a contented sound, practically purring. “You should say stuff like this when you’re sober. I thought you just wanted to be friends.”

“You were never just my friend,” he says. His nose is against her neck, making her shiver. “The first time I saw you, I–god. I never just wanted to be your friend. But it would have been so much worse to be nothing, so I didn’t–”

Clarke smiles. “Come on, I’m going to get you some water and make sure you don’t pass out in a pool of your own vomit. But we should talk about that. You know. When we’re both sober.”

He’s still drunk enough when she’s leaving that she decides he should sleep on her couch. For legitimate, friend reasons, not because she wants to have a chance to make out with him as soon as he’s sober and non-hungover enough to want to.

He’s already in the kitchen when she wakes up, making coffee.

“How drunk was I?” he asks, sheepish.

“Pretty drunk,” she says, going to stand next to him and bump his hip. “You chewed on my hair and told me we weren’t friends.”

“What?”

“I think because you wanted to make out.”

He goes pale. “Shit, I–I was drunk, Clarke, I’m so sorry, I shouldn’t have–”

“I don’t want to be your friend either,” she says. “If it’s, you know. Friends or making out. I want to make out.”

She can see him swallow. “Yeah?”

“Assuming you aren’t terrible at it.”

He laughs. “That sounds like a challenge.”

“Oh, it absolutely was. Come on, Blake. Show me what you’ve got.”

And he does.

They stop being friends, after that. Clarke doesn’t mind one bit.


	41. 69. “Why the hell are you bleeding!?”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> College AU! Did I mention I've been drinking for this one and the last? Because I have been. Also the next.

Bellamy’s used to getting woken up in the middle of the night by people pounding on his door. He’s an RA; one of his responsibilities is being the guy you come to when it’s the middle of the night and there is some kind of crisis. Generally involving alcohol. Bellamy’s never been a big drinker, but he’s seen enough stomachs get pumped this year that he is not going to be able to drink more than two beers at a time ever again without feeling vaguely terrified.

This time, though, when he opens the door, it’s not one of his freshman, propped up on another one of his freshmen. It’s Clarke Griffin, and she’s bleeding.

Bellamy and Clarke aren’t exactly friends. They mostly fight, honestly. They’re both on college council and are constantly arguing. About policies and the honor code and–anything the can argue about. Bellamy will oppose anything she says, just for fun, at this point. He thinks they’re kind of–fond of each other. He’s at least fond of her.

And she’s showing up at his door at two a.m. with a split lip, so that means–something.

“Clake, what the fuck?” he says, pulling her into his room. “Why the hell are you bleeding?”

“I got in a fight, obviously.”

He pushes the door shut behind her; the last thing he needs is his freshman hearing this conversation. Although if anyone saw the drunk, bleeding girl coming into his room, he’ll probably still get some knowing looks and pointed comments, but whatever. He has more important things to worry about.

“How is that obvious? Who gets in a fight?”

“Someone was talking shit.”

“I talk shit to you all the time, you’ve never fought me.”

“Of course not. We’re friends. Friends don’t punch each other in the face.”

He smiles a little. He’s got his own bathroom, since he’s an RA, so he wets a washcloth for her and offers it. “Friends just show up in the middle of the night because they got punched in the face?”

“I thought I remembered you lived here,” she admits. “And I didn’t want to go home. I got in the fight with my roommate’s boyfriend.”

“Jesus. Are you living in a soap opera? What the hell happened?”

Clarke dabs her face and totally misses the actual wound; he assumes she’s drunk. He takes the washcloth back and does it for her. “So, my roommate is dating this guy, real asshole, obviously. And she’s also kind of an asshole. My entire living situation is basically a disaster.” 

“Sounds like it.” he says. “So, he just punched you?”

“I’m bi, which I told her at the beginning of the year, and she told him, and that somehow turned into me being in love with her and trying to seduce her because I keep changing clothes in front of her.”

“In the room where you live.”

“Yeah, it’s all part of my sinister bisexual agenda. Not, you know. I  _live there_.” She smiles a little, and it splits her lip.

“Don’t make that face.”

“It’s called a smile, Bellamy.”

“Oh, is that what that is? I’ve never seen you do it before.”

“Shut up.” She rubs the back of her neck. “Anyway I was kind of drunk and said hi to them at the bar, and he was drunk, so he was all, like, stay away from my girlfriend, don’t seduce her with your–I dunno, I assume I’m way better at sex than he is and he knows it? That was probably the issue. Anyway, he took a swing at me. And then I kneed him in the groin, told him he was a fucking dickface, and I guess that pissed one of his friends off and it turned into kind of a brawl? Over a girl I wasn’t even hitting on.”

“Wow. Good job. Seriously, that’s some skills.” He examines her face, mostly to see if the bleeding has stopped, but also because he kind of likes looking at her. “So you came here.”

“You’re a dick about a lot of stuff, but I was pretty sure you wouldn’t be a dick about this. And–I wanted to see a friendly face.”

Bellamy swallows hard. Being nice to each other is uncharted territory for them, but he doesn’t want it to be. “Yeah,” he says. “Well, uh, I’ve got a futon, so–do you want to watch Netflix until you feel better? And you can crash if you want. I’m an RA, I’m used to people passing out on my couch after a rough night.”

“That would be great, thanks,” she says, with a hopeful little smile that makes his heart pick up.

They get settled on the futon, and she ends up snuggled into his side, fast asleep, within about twenty minutes. He thinks about moving, putting her to bed on the futon and going back to his own bed, but–she’s so close and warm, and she looks so relaxed. He can’t bring himself to move.

He rests his head against hers, closes his eyes, and goes to sleep.


	42. 94. “I bet I can make you scream my name.”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Roommates AU.

“I bet I can make you scream my name,” Clarke announces out of nowhere.

Bellamy doesn’t look up. “I scream your name all the time. I’m pretty sure I screamed,  _goddamnit, Clarke, why the fuck did you leave your bra in the sink?_ yesterday.”

“I was washing it!”

“This is my point. Of course you can make me scream your name. You’re the most infuriating roommate I’ve ever had, and I used to live with Octavia.”

Clarke flops down onto the couch. “You are the fucking worst.”

“I’m just telling it like it is. I would not make that bet. Way too easy for you to win.” He frowns, belatedly catching up with the conversation. “Wait, why are we even making this bet? What kind of bet is that?”

“I was just, you know, observing. I am totally capable of making you scream my name.”

“Like all roommates do.”

“Like all roommates do,” she agrees.

Bellamy can’t help it; he’s curious. “So, uh, what was your plan? To win this bet?”

She puts her feet in his lap. “I don’t think I should give my secrets away. What if I need to make you scream later? If you’re prepared, it’s not going to work.”

“Again, you don’t need to work that hard. You make me want to scream all the time.” He pokes her foot. “Come on, tell me. Where were you going with this?”

She rolls her eyes, all fake-casual dismissal, and he tries not to get too excited. But he knows Clarke, knows how she acts, when she’s pretending not to care about stuff. “If you’re this bad at being hit on, maybe you don’t deserve to be seduced,” she says, taking her feet out of his lap and going into the kitchen.

It takes him a second to recover, but then he’s tripping over his own feet to follow her. “Hey, wait, no, I totally deserve to be seduced,” he protests. “I can get better at being hit on. Try it again, this time I’ll be really charmed.”

She laughs, almost in spite of herself, and he smiles back at her. “You’re such a dork,” she tells him.

He wants to protest that she’s the one who decided the best way to hit on him was to try to make a bet about him screaming her name, but she’s kind of touchy about that stuff sometimes, and he really does not want to jeopardize this. “Yeah, yeah,” agrees. “The biggest dork. Now, tell me more about this bet.”


	43. LINCOLN/OCTAVIA 76. “I need you to pretend we’re dating…”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yeah Linctavia modern AU! Like a regular modern AU, but Linctavia. Is that what I said last time? I'm too lazy to check.

“Okay, this is a great situation for you,” Clarke says.

Lincoln looks at her dubiously. Clarke is his best friend. He loves her and would trust her with his life. It’s just that he has trouble trusting her with less important things. Like his car keys. And his love life. And any kind of living creature. She kills plants, he doesn’t want to imagine her with a dog or a baby.

“I’m going to regret asking this,” he says, “but how?”

“You have a thing for my boyfriend’s little sister.”

He thinks about protesting, but he has, on more than one occasion, gotten drunk and said some things to Clarke he regrets, mostly about how Octavia has very pretty hair and very pretty eyes and could probably kick his ass, so those protestations would be both useless and pathetic. Instead, he says, “And?”

“And you need a date!”

“I don’t  _need_  a date,” he says. “It would just be–beneficial.”

“Because you told your students you had a girlfriend.”

It was not, overall, Lincoln’s finest moment. He’s used to about ninety percent of the girls and ten percent of the boys in his classes checking him out, and he’s fine with it. They’re tenth graders, which means they have way too many hormones happening, and he is a fairly safe outlet for that. He just started claiming he had a girlfriend, at some point, on the grounds that it kept the more precocious of the students from doing anything they’d be embarrassed about later. It was an easy, safe solution that worked out well for everyone.

And then, while they were working on their booth for the carnival, Charlotte asked, “Hey, Mr. Trail, do you think your girlfriend would come this weekend?”

It took him a minute to figure out what she was talking about, and during that minute, everyone else began clamoring about how great it would be if his girlfriend could make it and how cool it would be to meet her, and he’d reluctantly said he would see if she was free.

And then he’d asked Clarke if she’d be willing to do it, and she’d laughed in his face, which he absolutely deserved.

“I can just say she’s busy,” he decides.

Clarke cocks her head at him, contemplating him with an intensity that makes him squirm. If she was a teacher, no kid would ever get away with anything in her class. She’d just stare at them until they confessed everything, and it would work. “Look, I’m serious,” she says. “This is the least risky possible way to feel Octavia out. In a non-dirty way,” she adds quickly. “And then maybe in a dirty way, if it goes well.”

“Please get to the point before I die of embarrassment.”

“You should just be like, I need you to pretend we’re dating! Just for a day! For the kids! And if she says no, you can tell your kids that your girlfriend is busy. But why do that before you check if Octavia would be willing to tag along? She probably will. She’ll probably think it’s funny.”

It’s not actually a bad point. If he’s going to be too much of a wuss to do ask her out like a normal person–and he absolutely is–he can at least fake ask her out and see how that goes.

“You might be right,” he admits.

“I’m always right,” she says. She pulls out her phone. “Want me to text Bellamy and see if he and O want to get drinks tonight?”

“You are the best friend I’ve ever had,” he says, and means it.

“Oh, believe me, I know.”

*

It’s not hard to get a private conversation going. Bellamy and Clarke tend to be off in their own little world when they’re together, so whenever the four of them go out, he tends to end up hanging out with Octavia. Which is why he goes out with them as much as he does, honestly. 

So talking to her, generally, isn’t a problem. Even talking to her about the whole dating thing isn’t that hard, because once they’re settled in with drinks, she smiles and says, “So, how’s school going?”

He gives her a somewhat sheepish smile. “I actually wanted to talk to you about that.”

“Me? Why?”

“It’s–well, I might have given my students the impression I–” He sighs. “There’s a carnival this weekend, to raise money for extracurriculars, and the theater club wants me to bring my girlfriend.”

“Your girlfriend?”

“Yes. I told them I had a girlfriend because I tend to be–popular. With the students. And it seemed like a good idea to just say I was taken. But they asked if I’d bring her to the carnival, and now I’m a little stuck.”

Octavia laughs, but not in a mean way. She sounds almost delighted. “So, you lied to your students about having a girlfriend, and now they want to meet her and you’re screwed?”

He rubs the back of his neck. “That’s the general gist of it. I thought you might be willing to help out. It should be fun? We have a dunking booth, and I’ve promised to sit in it for an hour.”

“Will there be giant stuffed animal prizes?”

“There should be.”

“And would you win me one?”

“I would win you several, if you wanted.”

She taps her chin. “Yeah, nope.”

He tries not to be too crushed. It’s better to be turned down for a fake date than a real one, right? Much less heartbreaking. She doesn’t even know she’s hurting him. 

He is going to kill Clarke.

“I didn’t really think you would,” he admits. “I just thought I’d–”

“I don’t want to lie to a bunch of kids,” she continues, ignoring him. “I mean, what kind of jerk lies to kids? Other than you, I mean.”

This is just getting worse and worse.

“So, really, the only way I could possibly go would be if I was your real girlfriend.”

Or not.

He wets his lips, staring at her with what must be a very unattractive shocked expression. She’s smiling, though, and her cheeks are a little pink, and there’s a nervousness about her he hasn’t seen before. “And–how would you become my real girlfriend?” he asks.

“First, you ask me out on a real date. Like, dinner. Tomorrow. At seven.”

He has to smile. “And then?”

“And then we see how it goes. When’s the carnival?”

“Sunday.”

“So–five days?” She nods. “I could definitely be your real girlfriend in five days. If we get started soon.”

“Like tomorrow. At seven.”

“Exactly,” she says.

*

On Sunday, Lincoln introduces his students to his girlfriend, Octavia. He’s pretty sure about ninety percent of the boys and ten percent of the girls fall instantly in love with her, which is exactly how it should be.


	44. CLARKE/RAVEN 53. “Who crawls through someone’s window at 4am to go for ice cream?!”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Modern AU!

It’s hard for Raven to say that having Clarke Griffin in her life has improved it. Not because it hasn’t–she knows it has. But it’s hard to say because then she has to admit she’s glad Finn isn’t in her life anymore, and that still hurts, six months later.

Someday, she’s going to deal with all the strange, sandpaper feelings she has about Finn, and she’s not ready yet. So instead of thinking that Clarke has made her life better, she just settles on Clarke having made her life more exciting.

Exhibit A: It’s 4 am on a Tuesday, and Clarke is trying to get her window open.

Raven drags herself out of bed–she was awake, of course she was awake, she’s mostly nocturnal–and opens up the window.

“Hey, Griffin. There’s this new thing I don’t know if you’ve heard of. It’s called a door.”

“Why is there a screen in your window?” Clarke asks, poking it with a frown. She doesn’t seem drunk, but she holds her liquor pretty well, so it’s hard to be sure. Also, she’s trying to climb in Raven’s window in the middle of the fucking night, so clearly something has happened in her life.

“Bugs,” says Raven. “Why are you trying to climb in my window?”

“Ice cream.”

Raven pops the screen out and helps Clarke get into the room; Clarke looks stupidly pleased with herself. She’s wearing pajama pants with unicorns on them and a tank top that says “Artists do it with longer strokes.”

Raven has not put a lot of time into sexuality-based soul searching; she mostly likes what she likes and doesn’t worry about it. But she really likes Clarke Griffin, sometimes.

A lot.

“Ice cream,” she repeats, crossing her arm. “What about it?”

“We’re getting some!”

“Who crawls through someone’s window at 4 am to go for ice cream?”

“It’s our anniversary,” says Clarke.

“Our what,” Raven repeats.

Clarke pulls her phone out of her bra which is–a lot to deal with, and scrolls through it. She finds June 6, and there’s a note that says:  _4:06 am, met Raven, dumped Finn, best night ever._

“And now it’s October 6, 4:06 am, so we’re going to go get ice cream.”

“This couldn’t wait for the morning?”

“It’s an anniversary, Raven. You celebrate it when it happened.”

“Actually, you usually celebrate it whenever the hell you want. That’s why people don’t have birthday parties the exact minute they were born.” She frowns. “Shit, do you have birthday parties the exact minute you were born? Am I just gonna have to deal with this for the rest of my life? Celebrating us at four a.m. and birthday parties I have to take a sick day to go to because you were born at like 1 in the afternoon?”

Clarke bites her lip, this pleased smile flirting with her lips, and Raven cannot keep seeing her in the middle of the night, when the world is soft and she’s tired and it’s hard to remember things like–whatever reasons there are she’s never kissed Clarke Griffin. 

“You’re gonna deal with this for the rest of your life?” Clarke asks.

“No, I’m hoping this is just a one-time thing, and when it rolls around to June 2 we’ll just go to a bar at like 10 instead of–”

And then Clarke kisses her.

Raven’s never kissed anyone but Finn, and that feels like a tragedy right now, because kissing Finn never made her heart race like this. It felt inevitable, the first time it happened, like their whole lives had been leading to this, but six months out of that relationship, Raven can analyze it for what it was, not true love, but one item on a to-do list she’d written when she was a kid, one she should have revised a lot time ago.

Clarke’s kiss is soft and brief, just the quick press of her mouth, lingering on her bottom lip for a second before she pulls away, and then Clarke is looking at her, open, unsure, a little hopeful, and Raven realizes she didn’t do any of the things she should have, like kissing Clarke back.

“We’re not getting fucking ice cream,” she says, slides her hand into Clarke’s hair, and  _kisses her_ , kind of sloppy and probably not that great, but Clarke responds instantly and enthusiastically, so she must not mind too much.

“So what are we going to do instead?” Clarke asks, sliding her hands up under Raven’s shirt. “It’s our anniversary. We have to celebrate.”

Raven snorts. “I’m pretty sure we can come up with something.”


	45. 84. "I'm dying."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Modern AU! Parental death warning.

“I’m dying,” says his mother, and it’s–frank. Bellamy spends the first few agonizing moments after she says it trying to find the right word for her tone. Not casual, not conversational, not blunt, but frank. She’s dying, and she’s already accepted it. “You’ll have things to figure out.”

“Things to figure out,” he repeats. He’s nineteen and his mother is dying, and she wants to talk about it in the same tones they used to talk about his financial aid forms for college.

“Octavia will need to be taken care of, you’re probably going to have to do some work to prove you’re capable. I think the mortgage on the house shouldn’t be too much of an issue. Your girlfriend is rich, do you think she’d help?”

Bellamy chokes on a sound, and he has no idea what it would have been, if he made it. A laugh, or something. “Don’t even–this isn’t how we’re having this conversation. You haven’t even told me what’s wrong. There are doctors, there’s–”

“Practicalities first,” she says, and it’s not even a surprise, really–it makes him weirdly choked up. He’s so fucking mad at her, that this is how she’s dealing with it, but it’s exactly what he’ll miss about her, if–

God, she’s  _dying._

“I can’t do this,” he says, scrubbing his face, and before she can say anything, he’s out of the house, not quite running, but–moving. He’s going to move, because he can’t be there.

His legs find Clarke’s house without trying to; his legs have always found Clarke’s house. They were best friends long before anything romantic happened between them, and she’s been listening to him complain about his family for years.

There’s nowhere else he’d go.

Abby opens the door, smiles at him, warm and maternal. His gut twists. “Hello, Bellamy. Clarke didn’t mention you were coming over. Are you staying for dinner?”

“Probably not,” he says. “She doesn’t know I’m coming, I just–”

Of course, Abby picks up on his mood. He’s probably radiating  _I am not okay_  so hard it’s visible from space. “Well, just let me know. She’s upstairs.”

He smiles a little, although he doesn’t know if he comes out right. “Thanks.”

Clarke’s door is open, and she’s stretched out on her stomach on the bed, reading. Her hair is a mess around her shoulders, uncombed, unstyled, and he just drops against the door frame, watching her for a second. She’s the only person in the world who makes him feel this uncomplicated, like all the problems in the world might actually have solutions.

He straightens, knocks on the wall to get her attention. She starts and turns, gives him her brightest smile. “Hey!”

“Hi,” he says, and her expression dims, just like that. “I have, uh–I have bad news.”

She comes over and wraps her arms around him, and he clings to her. “Okay,” she says, kissing his jaw. “So–we’ll figure it out, right?”

He buries his face against her hair. “Yeah. We’ll figure it out.”


	46. 61. “I love you. I’m completely and utterly in love with you. Please don’t get married.”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hey, non-AU! What up.

“You don’t have to do this,” Clarke says.

Bellamy is sort of fiddling with his hair, checking his reflection in the only mirror they have. She can’t tell if he’s nervous or just vain.

“No,” he agrees. “But it’s definitely the easiest way to make this deal with the grounders work.”

“It’s a  _marriage_.”

“Yeah, and?”

“That means something,” says Clarke. “It’s–” 

“A lifetime commitment to another person. I’ve already got a lot of those. And she’d be coming here, so you don’t have to worry about impact on–”

“You know that’s not what I’m worried about,” she snaps.

“We need a trade alliance, this is what they say they want for it.” He shrugs. “I like this clan, and my sister already married a grounder, so–”

She catches his arm. “Bellamy, stop.”

She watches him, the deliberate straightening of his shoulders, like he’s going into battle. He doesn’t turn back to her when he says, “It’s not your decision, Clarke. It’s mine.”

“They’d make another deal, and you know it.”

“Probably, but why bother? This is how their people form alliances, so–”

“You shouldn’t have to get married for a trade agreement! You didn’t even try to negotiate. There are definitely other things they’d agree to.”

“The way I see it, it’s not up to you. No one’s asking you to get married, they’re too afraid of you. They’re asking me, and I don’t mind. I’m going to go and meet with them, and you can butt out of it. It’s not your–”

“I love you,” Clarke bursts out. It’s her last argument, the one she wanted to keep in because she knows he doesn’t feel the same way. She left, and he’s very nearly forgiven her for it, has learned to work with her again, but they can’t be like they were. And it’s comforting, in a strange way. She’s still being punished. “I’m–I’m completely in love with you,” she continues, when he just turns to stare at her. “And it’s not–I know you don’t feel the same, that’s fine, just–please don’t get  _married_. Not just for a trade agreement. Do it because you find someone else you–” She bites her lip, cutting herself off. “I want you to be happy, Bellamy. So–don’t get married. I’ll do it, if someone has to. I want something better than this for you.”

It’s almost true. What she really wants is herself for him, but that’s not going to happen.

He’s still staring at her, and she rubs her face, feeling the heat of her own cheeks.

“That argument made more sense in my head,” she admits. “I guess it’s pretty selfish, I just–”

“Clarke,” he says, voice oddly gentle.

“You should get married if you want, obviously, I don’t know why I thought–”

He wraps one hand around her wrist and tugs her to him, touch as gentle as his voice. She looks up at him at last; he’s smiling with just one side of his mouth, rueful and a little amused. “You shouldn’t get married either,” he says. He leans in close, brushes his nose against hers. “Who says I don’t feel the same, anyway?”

“You’ve been–” she starts, but he kisses her before she can finish.

“I’ve been mad at you, yeah,” he says, against her lips. “I love you, and you left.”

“I love you, so I came back,” she says. “You’re not marrying anyone else,” she adds. “I don’t care how good it is for trade, you’re not–”

“I’m not,” he agrees, kissing her again. “Don’t worry. I’ll tell them I’m spoken for.” He gives her another crooked smile. “Seriously, who gets married for a trade agreement?”


	47. 91. "I remember everything."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Modern AU! Cleared out all these line prompts, so I assume I will stop dumping huge quantities of these.

“Okay, okay,” Clarke says, giggling a little. Champagne always makes her giggly. It’s the bubbles. “But remember when–who was it, Monty?”

“I don’t know where you’re going with this, but odds are good it was Monty,” Bellamy says. He’s not laughing as much as she is, but he’s got this smile playing around his lips, fond and amused, and Clarke can’t quite stop looking at him.

She’d been a little nervous about coming to Raven and Octavia’s wedding. She loves them, both of them, and she’s so stupidly happy for them, but it felt like kind of a minefield. Finn is here, but they’ve basically agreed to ignore each other, because everyone has agreed their entire relationship was a mistake and it’s best to pretend it never happened. But it wasn’t like that with Bellamy. Bellamy remains the best significant other she’s ever had, and she wasn’t pining for him or anything, but–it wasn’t the bad kind of nerves for him,honestly. It was this low, hopeful anticipation, because they were great together, and the only reason they broke up was that they graduated from college and went to opposite ends of the country. And Octavia’s his sister, so of course he was going to be at her wedding. Of course she was going to see him.

She wasn’t even a little surprised to see that Raven and Octavia had seated them together. Bellamy’s  _in the wedding party_ , and he’s not even sitting with the brides, because the brides are fucking meddlers. 

Not that Clarke can’t bring herself to mind. He’s as attractive as ever, all broad shoulders and white teeth and freckles, and every time he smiles at her, she forgets a little more why they didn’t try to make long distance work. Why she never called him and asked what he was up to. And it’s not even just that he’s hot. They were good together, and they still are, even if all they’re doing is reliving their best-of-college memories. It’s fun and easy and still exactly what she wants, five years later.

“I’m pretty sure it was Monty,” she decides, pulling her thoughts away from his fingers on the stem of his champagne flute. “Because it was Professor Wallace, and we were all in that class together, and he was such an asshole–”

“Oh, god, that genetics class?”

“Yeah!”

“Jesus, I just took that because I had a crush on you, and I nearly gave up on you because it was so fucking bad,” he says, laughing. “Like it was your fault or something. Yeah, that was definitely Monty. The prank on his car?”

“It was so good. I still have no idea how he got it on the roof.”

“I’m pretty sure Miller helped.”

“Miller! I haven’t talked to him in years. Are they still together?”

“Yeah, they just got engaged, actually.” His fingers twitch on his glass again. “I wonder if I’m gonna be able to make it to that wedding.”

“Why wouldn’t you? They’re in Seattle too, right?”

“Yeah, but, uh–” He looks over at Octavia and Raven, dancing. “I was actually doing a final round of interviews for a new job here. While I was in town.” He clears his throat. “They, uh. They offered me the position, so I’m probably going to be moving in about a month. Just need to give notice and pack up.”

A lump forms in Clarke’s throat. “Oh.”

“Yeah, so–obviously I couldn’t miss my sister’s wedding, but I might be able to miss my best friend’s. Especially if I just had to pay for all the moving stuff.”

She nods, feeling dazed. She’d been sort of hoping to turn this into a quick wedding hookup with her hot ex, but if he’s  _moving_ –

If he’s moving, she still wants to hook up, but she’d really like to get his number too. His address. His everything.

“Yeah, that makes sense,” she agrees. They’re quiet for a minute, and then she says, “So, do you remember–”

“Clarke.” He offers her a smile, sheepish, a little hopeful. “I think it’s pretty safe to say I remember everything. At least–everything about you.”

She reaches over and takes his hand. “Me too.”

His smile upgrades to a full grin. “So, uh, remember that time we left my sister’s wedding early so we could have sex?”

She laughs. “Actually, no. But that sounds like a really precious memory.”

“One for the scrapbook,” he says, standing and tugging her up with him. She goes easily, letting him lead her out of the reception hall. Raven definitely notices, and definitely approves. She gets a thumbs up. 

Bellamy hums, thoughtful, as they get into the elevator. “By the way, what are you doing for dinner in like a month?”

“No plans yet.”

“Good.”


	48. "“i’m a siren and i keep accidentally forgetting that i have roommates now and and end up putting them in my thrall when i’m singing taylor swift songs in the shower"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I feel like the chapter title really says it all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I asked for some tipsy Halloween AUs, so here are some of those!

First, it’s Raven, which is fine. Raven is the roommate he’s most attracted to, which, okay, maybe it’s a little shallow to have a list of “what order would I fuck my roommates, if fucking my roommates was on the table (or I was going to fuck my roommates on the table)” but he didn’t sit down and actually make a list, it just sort of happened. Raven is exactly his type, devastatingly hot and clearly more than capable of kicking his ass, so it’s natural that he has, occasionally, thought about how he’d totally hook up if she wanted to.

But it’s a total accident that he enthralls her. He doesn’t really  _like_  enthralling people, honestly; he is attractive enough that he doesn’t really need to have much game, and he does fine at bars with absolutely no supernatural help. Just because he’s a siren doesn’t mean he  _has_  to sing to get laid. And, honestly, the one time he got drunk and did karaoke in college was actively traumatic, so he tends to avoid it. But he and Roma decided it should be Rolling Stones day at the bookstore, so he has “Satisfaction” stuck in his head, and he’s always had a tendency toward shower-singing. It was a problem once, in college, when he did it in the dorms and a guy decided they needed to make out, but Bellamy had mostly gotten out of it with protestations that he’s straight (75% true) and the guy was drunk (not 100% certain but it had been a Friday night in a college bathroom, so he liked his odds) and it hadn’t been catastrophic.

But Bellamy knows that he cannot, for a thousand reasons, seduce any of his roommates, with or without magical whammies, so he only starts singing because he thinks no one’s home.

When he comes out of the shower, Raven is sitting at the kitchen table and asks, “Are you a fucking siren?”

It seems pointless to deny it, so he just winces and says, “Fuck, sorry, I didn’t know anyone was here.”

She nods once, and then says, “Well, I’m really fucking horny now. One-time thing?”

He worries his lip. “It’s kind of skeevy.”

“You haven’t been singing for, like, ten minutes. I’m just  _still horny_. Help a girl out. No strings.”

Even though they’ve only been living together for a couple weeks, he knows Raven isn’t really a relationship kind of girl, at least not right now. She tends toward one-night stands and flings, and she seems to like it. When the four of them first went out as roommates, she drunkenly explained to Clarke that she’s just not really into the whole dating scene, but she is really into orgasms. And it’s a philosophy he can get behind.

“Give it five more minutes?” he says.

“You know you’re really fucking hot, right?”

“I’ve been told. That’s why I rely on my natural gifts to get laid.”

Five minutes later, she comes into his room and climbs into his lap, and he figures that, as power misfires go, it’s probably fine.

The next time it’s Wells, who is probably number two on Bellamy’s list of roommates he wants to fuck. At least, he was definitely number two on the initial list, and he has no interest in revisiting the list based on–no interest in revising the list ever. So, yeah, Wells. Definitely. Person he lives with he’d like to fuck second, after Raven. For sure.

Obviously, he isn’t planning on enthralling Wells any more than he’s planning to enthrall Raven. After the Satisfaction incident, he did at least  _tell_  his roommates he’s a siren, which he probably should have in the first place, but people have  _ideas_  about sirens. Mostly that they are beautiful, half-naked girls who sit around on rocks with lutes, using their hair to cover their breasts. Which Octavia could do, if she wanted to, but she is the most hilariously tone-deaf siren of all time, and he makes fun of her about it all the time, and also he really doesn’t want to think about his baby sister half-naked on a rock luring sailors to their doom.

So, yeah, anyway, he usually keeps it quiet, but once he’s accidentally gotten Raven in his thrall, it seems only polite to issue a general warning. Wells nods and shrugs, and Clarke has a bunch of questions about how it  _works_ , like, is it  _any_  song, and when did it start, was he in kindergarten singing “Row, Row, Row Your Boat?” and a bunch of kids got really confused about what was happening in their pants. And it’s kind of–honestly, Bellamy spent the first few weeks in his new housing situation thinking Clarke was kind of an uptight, spoiled asshole, but it turns out she’s just really  _genuine_ , and instead of embracing it like Wells, she’s decided to hide it under a lot of surliness. It’s something Bellamy can relate to, and tries pretty hard not to think about. Clarke is still definitely his least-favorite roommate.

He is definitely not thinking about Clarke the day he accidentally enthralls Wells. He was hanging out with his sister, talking about his roommates, and when she pointed out that all his roommate stories are actually Clarke stories, he turned up the radio, and now he has Beyonce stuck in his head. Which is a much better use of his brain power than Clarke stories, so whatever. But he’s kind of accidentally humming on his way home, stopping when he notices he’s turning heads and then starting again because Beyonce  _always_  gets stuck in his head. He’s actually singing softly when he gets home–sirens naturally sing, okay? It’s a hard instinct to fight–and he doesn’t notice Wells in the living room, sitting up painfully straight, until he’s gotten through “Single Ladies” twice.

“Uh, fuck,” he says. “Sorry.”

“It’s cool. That was–kind of educational. I didn’t know sirens could work on, like–I’m straight.”

Bellamy shrugs, awkward. “I’m pretty irresistible.”

“Uh huh,” says Wells.

“Seriously, I’m really sorry. I try to be careful.”

“It’s fine,” he says, waving his hand. “Now I know what it’s like to fantasize about a dude. So that’s cool. I’m always down for a new experience.”

“Perks of living with a siren,” Bellamy says, and buys him a cupcake the next day, just to be safe.

The last time, it’s Clarke, which was exactly what he was dreading.

The thing is, Bellamy is, very slowly, coming to accept that Clarke is his favorite. Possibly not even just in the apartment. Possibly his favorite in a way no one has been before, and a way he’s not really prepared to deal with. Bellamy doesn’t get  _feelings_  for people. Bellamy isn’t a feelings guy.

But here he is, somehow, and he doesn’t know what to do with himself. He just knows that he doesn’t want to enthrall Clarke, not ever, because–that’s cheating. He doesn’t want Clarke to ever hear him sing, because he wants her to like him, just him, and it’s the worst.

“It’s called a crush,” Octavia tells him, patting him on the shoulder. All his roommates have gone home for the holidays, so he’s out drinking and complaining about feelings with his sister. He is aware he’s pathetic, he just doesn’t care enough to stop being pathetic. “Just tell her.”

“She hates me,” he says. He’s not confident it’s true, but they really got off on the wrong foot, and he doesn’t think he’s done enough to correct that that he’s moved from  _annoying pain in the ass_  to  _possible romantic prospect_.

“You could sing for her.”

“Seriously, no.”

“You could get drunk and cry.”

“Way ahead of you.”

He staggers into the shower when he gets home and belts “How You Get the Girl,” because he is alone in his apartment and he has a little sister, and he’s not even that embarrassed that 1989 is his fucking jam.

He’s cleaning and singing “Blank Space” the next morning when he spots Clarke, leaning against her door with a calculating expression.

He jumps and turns off his iPod. “What the fuck?” he asks. “Didn’t you go home?”

“Fight with my mom,” she says. “It was just–it sucked. And I didn’t want to go back last night, so I figured I’d wait and see if I started wanting to, or if I should just stay here.” She offers him half a smile. “Sorry, I should have warned you I was going to be here.”

“Fuck,  _you’re_ sorry? I was fucking singing. I’m really–fuck. Were you here last night, too?”

“It’s fine, you didn’t know.”

“Yeah, but–”

“Bellamy, it’s fine. Really.”

He wets his lips. “Sorry. I’ve never had roommates before. I didn’t–I’d never–” He runs his hand through his hair, feeling like the biggest asshole of all time for accidentally making Clarke think about him like that.

He startles at the feel of her hand on his arm. “Bellamy. It’s fine. I barely even noticed.”

“ _What_?”

“Maybe you’re broken or something. Don’t get me wrong, you’ve got a nice voice, and I’m a big Taylor Swift fan, but I wasn’t like, oh, I have to go jump him immediately.”

It takes a minute for the her words to sink in, and then he starts to grin. “Seriously?”

“You look pretty happy about your mojo failing.”

“Well,” he says, reaching down to take her wrist in his hand. “You know what it means when my mojo doesn’t work?”

“I’m guessing something obnoxious,” she says, but there’s a faint flush on her cheeks.

“It means you’re already into me,” he says. “I can’t enthrall someone who already wants me.”

Now she’s definitely blushing. “You’re hot, so–”

“Raven thought I was hot too, that’s not enough.” He smiles at her, all fondness. “You  _like_  me.”

“You’re a dick, I’m going to stop,” she mutters, and he kisses her, soft and warm.

“I like you too,” he says. “That’s why I didn’t want to–I never wanted to sing around you. I was being so fucking careful.”

Her hands find his hips, and she’s smiling a little, shy. “Oh. Well, you should. I like your voice.”

He leans down to kiss her again. “Any time you want.”


	49. grumpy, dressed up Bellamy goes treak-or-treatin' with his little sister and they end up at the Griffin's door, where Clarke makes fun of his costume?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Again, the chapter title really covers it.

“You know that plenty of adults  _don’t_  wear costumes trick-or-treating, right?” Bellamy grumbles. He had his own costume, a fairly standard pirate outfit he wore to Miller’s party last night, but according to Octavia it was  _too boring_ , so now he’s Peter Pan to his sister’s Tinkerbell, which is embarrassing on a thousand levels including, but not limited to:

  * He’s a grown man wearing tights.
  * He’s a grown man dressed as Peter Pan, which just speaks to unresolved childhood issues about refusing to grow up, which has never been Bellamy’s problem, honestly.
  * He and his baby sister are in  _matching costumes_ , which tends to be a couple thing, so, creepy.
  * He has to know that his sister either already had an adult man’s Peter Pan costume (how/why) or that she went out and got one specifically for him (again, how/why).



So, yeah. He is not thrilled with this situation.

“You’re nineteen, you’re not an adult.”

“And you’re twelve, isn’t that a little old to trick-or-treat?”

“I get to wear a costume and get free candy, I’m going to do it until I’m fifty.”

“Next year I’m not wearing a costume.”

“Yes you are,” she says, smug. “Besides, all the moms are totally checking out your ass.”

“First off, it’s weird and wrong that you’re paying attention to that. Second, I’m not actually trying to pick up moms, so I don’t care. Third, I’m going to steal all your candy except for the shitty stuff in revenge for this.”

“You’re getting your own candy, you don’t have to steal mine.”

“You’re right, I don’t. I choose to steal yours.”

She rolls her eyes and goes to knock on the door of some excessively huge house, which he takes to mean he won this argument. He’s not generally a fan of wandering around rich neighborhoods, but it’s probably better in terms of both safety and candy-quality than going near their house.

On the other hand,  _Clarke Griffin_  opens the door, so maybe, instead of trick-or-treating here, he could have just thrown himself into oncoming traffic or something. That would have been way better.

“Trick or treat!” says Octavia, oblivious, and Clarke smiles at her before her eyes flick up to Bellamy, and it turns into a  _smirk_.

“If you don’t say it, you don’t get candy,” she tells him.

“Hi, Clarke,” he says. 

He and Clarke don’t really know each other, not really. She’s two years younger than he is, which means she’s a senior in high school now, and he knew her in passing up until his own senior year. Then she got on student council with him and they spent half the year arguing over every dumb issue they could think of.

He would be lying if he said he didn’t enjoy it.

She’s dressed up as a Sailor Moon character, he’s pretty sure? She’s got a really short orange skirt and a tiara so that’s his best guess. It’s difficult to really think that hard about what she might be when he can see so much of her legs. 

He might have also had a very slight thing for her. Very slight.

“Hi, Bellamy,” she says. “Nice costume.”

“Thanks. Uh, O, this is Clarke, we went to high school together. Clarke, my sister, Octavia. She provided the costume.”

“Hi, Octavia. Tell your brother he doesn’t get candy unless he says trick or treat. There are rules.”

“Come  _on_ , Bell.”

“Yeah, come on, Bell,” Clarke says. Her expression looks more like it’s Christmas than Halloween; he hopes it’s too dark for her to see he’s blushing.

“Trick or treat,” he says, holding out his bag. 

“See, that wasn’t so hard,” she says, and drops a handful of candy–real, brand-name candy, the good stuff–into his bag, and then into Octavia’s. 

“Thanks,” he says. “This definitely wasn’t a horrific experience for me.”

“You look very cute, Bellamy,” Clarke assures him. And then she adds, overly casual, “Oh, hey, you’re at Ark, right?”

“Yeah, sophomore.”

“Cool. I’m applying early decision.”

“Oh,” he says. He wets his lips. He might  _still_  have a very slight thing for her. “Well, uh, Good luck. I hope you get in.”

“Me too. Happy Halloween.”

“She’s checking out your ass too,” Octavia tells him, as they leave.

Bellamy doesn’t glance back to see if she’s telling the truth, but it takes real effort. “Shut up, O.”


	50. we accidentally wore matching costumes to this party

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'm just going to stop filling these in

THIS IS ALSO FOR [@book-pirate](http://tmblr.co/miKXPGEy1DQtN92QRLrsBmQ), who asked for “ Accidental matching costumes for bellarke?”

* * *

 

Clarke does not do matching costumes. She was part of a giant group costume in freshman year, where her and five of her friends went as a rainbow, because all she had to do for that was dress entirely in blue, and it really got out the “I’m not straight” message, which meant she got to make out with Raven Reyes for an hour. So it went pretty well, but Clarke still, largely, is not a fan of the whole matching costume thing.

Which is why it’s  _so fucking irritating_ that everyone thinks she and Bellamy Blake  _planned this_.

“How does anyone even know who we are?” she demands. She knows it’s not his fault, but she’s going to yell at him because that’s kind of her default. Yelling at Bellamy is a way of life.

“You know we’re at Jasper and Monty’s party and you’re dressed as a Final Fantasy character, right? Did you think they  _weren’t_  going to recognize you?”

Clarke had chosen Celes because she was kind of hoping to get laid, and the combination of cape and no pants seemed like a pretty great way to get that message across. Plus, Wells dragged her to Otakon last summer, so she already had the outfit, because Wells is really into cosplay. And she’s played Final Fantasy VI on her DS like five times, so if any of Jasper and Monty’s comp sci friends try to call fake geek girl on her, she can kick their asses on like every level, which is always a fun thing to do at parties.

But Bellamy is Locke, which means not only are they wearing matching costumes, they’re warning (kind of) matching  _couples_ costumes, and considering most of her friends have already decided that their arguments are a cover for sexual tension, this is just–really not helping.

“I didn’t think anyone else was going to be a Final Fantasy character!”

“Well, you know what they say about assumptions, General. Are you gonna do an opera scene? How’s your singing voice?”

“I’m going to murder you.”

“How is this my fault?”

Clarke scowls, but she realizes she can’t actually find a way to blame this one on him. It’s actually not his fault that the two of them somehow managed to wear matching costumes to this party.

“Okay, fine, whatever. I’m going to get a drink.”

She pushes past him, and he lets her go, but he doesn’t  _really_  let her go. She’ll be chatting with someone and he shows up at her side, and somehow even the people who might not know they’re dressed as characters from the same video game still get a  _back off_  vibe.

“You know I wore this costume because I wanted to get laid, right?”

“So instead of just doing the classic scanty clothing plus mask or animal ears or whatever, you dressed up as a badass general from a twenty-year-old video game who doesn’t wear pants for no plot discernible reason.”

“I still wanted a cool costume, okay? And you’re just–hanging out, inexplicably cock-blocking me. Don’t you have something better to do?”

Bellamy takes a sip of his drink, like he’s thinking something over. “You know you posted pictures of yourself in that costume last summer, right? On Facebook. You were with some guy dressed as Edgar.”

“My best friend from high school, yeah,” she says, frowning. “We went to an anime convention.”

“I figured, uh–I thought you’d like the Locke costume,” he says. There are spots of color on his cheeks, and he’s avoiding eye contact. “I didn’t know you were wearing yours, I just wanted you to notice mine.”

Clarke wets her lips. “You made a Final Fantasy costume to impress me?” she asks. Her voice comes out even and natural, because she’s awesome.

“Also because it’s cool, but yeah. And then you were just pissed off, so–it was pretty hilarious, but not really what I was going for.”

“I guess it’s good you’re not  _inexplicably_ cock-blocking me,” she says. She glances at him. “So, everyone’s right, you’re just arguing with me because of unresolved sexual tension?”

“Nah, I’d probably still argue with you even if we resolved the sexual tension. But I do want to go out with you, yeah.”

Clarke has to smile. “And you decided the best way to convey this was a  _Halloween costume_.”

“It worked, right? I told you.” He rubs the back of his neck. “Anyway, uh, yeah. I’ll let you get back to trying to get laid tonight, so–”

Clarke catches his arm. “We are wearing matching costumes. It would be a shame to waste that.”

So, as it turns out, Clarke is 2/2 for matching costumes getting her some great making out, and when she wakes up in Bellamy’s bed the next morning and he winds his arm around her and says, “Don’t go, I’ll buy you breakfast. That’s a date, right?” she has to reluctantly admit that, all things considered, she’s done pretty well with them.


	51. LINCOLN/OCTAVIA “your costume is the superhero to my villain”

“Say I’m the best friend of all time,” Clarke says.

“You are the best friend of all time,” Lincoln says easily. “Is there a reason I’m telling you, or are you just drunk?”

“I’m drunk  _and_ there’s a reason,” she says. “You know that guy I’m totally going to bone?”

“The one you only ever run into at parties and always end up fighting with?”

“Yup. Anyway, he’s here, and he brought his hot little sister. Who is dressed as Poison Ivy. So, you know.”

“No, I don’t.”

“You’re Batman! That’s, like, instant pickup line. Also, not to be shallow, but she’s mostly naked and just covered by strategic fake foliage, so you should go for that so I don’t. Her brother definitely isn’t going to fuck me if I fuck his sister first.”

Lincoln pauses. “How drunk are you?”

“I’m  _fine._ Seriously, I met her at Jasper’s birthday party last month, they’re friends. She’s really awesome. She’s in law school to be a public defender and she teaches self-defense on the side? Also she loves hiking and dogs. You should probably marry her.” She pauses. “Also I’m about to go hit on her brother, so she’ll be lonely. Come on, Lincoln, you’re the hero Gotham needs!”

“You want me to hit on his sister so she won’t get in the way of your inept flirtation.”

“That’s what I said, yeah.” She takes his arm and drags him.

Lincoln is not really the party hookup type. Clarke isn’t either, but she’s been working on this Bellamy guy for long enough that he’s fairly sure any hooking up they do will turn into a relationship at this point. He also assumes said hooking up will happen tonight, because Clarke is dressed as Wonder Woman, and even though she is his best friend and he would never do anything to jeopardize that, he can still recognize that she looks truly amazing.

The girl dressed as Poison Ivy also looks amazing, so he reluctantly admits that Clarke might actually have his best interests at heart.

“Hey Bellamy, hey Octavia!” 

The guy Clarke has been failing to hook up with for the last few months is a few inches shorter than Lincoln, with curly black hair and freckles. He’s wearing a toga and a laurel wreath in his hair, and he’s definitely appreciating Clarke’s outfit.

“Hey, Clarke,” he says. He looks a little warily at Lincoln. “Batman.”

“My best friend, Lincoln,” she says. “I figured Octavia could menace him or something. Send plants at him? What does Poison Ivy even do? The Batman Rogues Gallery is so weird.”

Bellamy raises his eyebrows at her. “Rogues Gallery?”

“That’s what it’s called!”

This is apparently all the two of them need to start bickering, which would impress him more if he hadn’t known Clarke for fifteen years. Clarke is basically always willing to argue at the drop of a hat.

Octavia catches his eye and gives him a somewhat exasperated look, jerking her head like toward the drink table. Lincoln follows her.

“So, what does Poison Ivy do to menace Gotham City?” he asks. He has never in his life claimed to be smooth.

“Plant-based poison? Mind control? Hotness? Come on, Batman, you should know this.”

“Is this where I admit Clarke made my costume because I was too busy and I just let her do what she wanted?”

“How are you too busy for Halloween? It’s  _Halloween_.”

“I’m finishing up PhD. The only reason Clarke got me out here at all was that she literally came to my apartment with a costume and a bottle of vodka and refused to leave.”

“What’s your PhD?”

“Philosophy. I plan to be very unemployed.” He pours two beers from the keg and hands her one. “Clarke said you were in grad school?”

He realizes it’s kind of weird right after he says it, and Octavia must too, because she raises her eyebrows at him. “She did?”

“I think she was hoping I would wingman her while she flirts with your brother,” he says. He really hopes his cowl hides most of his reaction. “That was her backup, after I failed to be convinced that out costumes meant we were meant to be.”

“Yeah, that would be if I was Catwoman,” says Octavia. “Which I did think about, but sometimes you just really want to wear a plant leotard, you know?”

“All the time,” he says, dry, and she giggles.

“I think you could really work this. You look like you’ve got  _great_  shoulders.”

“And you’d probably make a pretty good Batman.”

Octavia grins. “So, that’s obviously what we should do next year.”

Lincoln smiles back. “Obviously.”

Clarke is  _incredibly_  smug about it, when Lincoln tells her next year that he and his girlfriend need help with costumes. But he supposes he can’t really blame her. It was technically her idea.


	52. Bellamy agreeing to matching costumes with Clarke because fucking Finn still won't take her "hell no" at face value.

“You know if you agree to this, you get armor, right?”

“You know I wasn’t even planning to go to this party, right?”

“Why not?” Clarke demands.

“Let’s see, I’m like twenty years older than you guys–”

“Five,” she supplies.

“Look, I know O is really excited about this, but it’s her first party since she finished college and I’m pretty far out from that, okay? It’s going to be weird if I go.”

“No one cares.”

“I’m not worried about you.  _I_  care. You guys are going to be doing–college party stuff. Drinking games.  _Beer pong_ , Clarke.”

“You know you’re not mature or anything, right? I mean, you’re kind of a grumpy old man, but that’s kind of a separate issue. Just because you hate teenagers and think pop music is worse now than it was in the seventies doesn’t mean you can’t have fun at a party.”

“And yet, I don’t want to.”

Clarke worries her lip, and Bellamy feels a sinking sensation in the pit of his stomach. Clarke has been friends with Octavia for four years, and Bellamy spent the first year or two reminding himself she was only a year older than his sister, and therefore way too young and totally off-limits. And then, once she graduated, he expected she’d leave town and he wouldn’t have to worry about it, but instead she stuck around and decided that, since Octavia was still in school, she and Bellamy should be friends. And Clarke always gets her way.

“Look, um–Finn is going to be there. And he’s leaving Raven alone because Raven is dating Wells now, but he’s convinced that  _single_  means  _available_. And ordinarily I’d just tell him to fuck off, but that wasn’t working, so–” She wets her lips. “Raven will make you  _actual armor_  if you just come to this party and hang out with me.” She offers him a smile. “I promise I’ll talk to you about the lost Roman legion and how kids need to get off your lawn.”

“He really won’t leave you alone?” he asks, finally.

Clarke pulls out her phone and shows him like fifteen texts from Finn about the party; she replied to the first one and said she wasn’t interested, but there are more, and–yeah. It’s bad enough to keep hitting on a girl who’s said she isn’t interested, but hitting on a girl who isn’t interested in part because you cheated on your girlfriend with her is the fucking worst.

“So, Raven will make me armor?“

Clarke pecks him on the cheek. “Thanks, Bellamy.”

*

“You know I owe Clarke fifteen bucks now, right?” Octavia asks, by way of greeting. She looks between them. “Princess and knight, really?”

“Prince,” Clarke corrects. “Princes can wear armor. I figured it would be a good message for Finn, you know–fine, I’m a princess, whatever. But I’m not  _your_  fucking princess.” She glances at Bellamy. “Besides, I figured armor would be a major selling point for Bellamy.”

“You do know what he’s into,” Octavia agrees. “And thanks for getting him to come.”

“So, you asked me to come to this because you wanted to win a bet with Octavia?” he asks, as Clarke navigates them through Octavia’s place. She’s sharing with like five other people, which means they can actually afford a decently sized place, and right now it is full of drunk twenty-somethings.

Clarke is holding his hand so they don’t get separated, though, so at least there’s that.

“No, I actually made the bet after you already agreed to come,” Clarke says, grinning over her shoulder at him. “It worked out really well for me.”

“Wow. You really wanted that fifteen bucks, huh?”

“I’m not going to let a prime opportunity like that go to waste.” She lets go of him to grab drinks, which are Octavia’s usual weird assortment of whatever hard liquor she had and whatever soda she felt like buying. “So, I assume you don’t want to play beer pong.”

“Definitely not.”

“Kings?”

“Even less.”

“What’s it like being seventy and trapped in a twenty-eight-year-old body? It must be exciting. Your hips work so much better than your peers’.”

“You know I’m still doing you a favor, right?”

Her expression softens, and she bumps her shoulder against his. Which cannot be comfortable, given she’s wearing a dress and he’s wearing armor, but it’s her life. “I know. And I really appreciate it.”

“So, seriously, why is Finn even at this party?” he asks. He’s so bad at dealing with genuine Clarke.

“He’s friends with Jasper, so Jasper invited him.” Clarke shrugs. “Octavia offered to veto him, but it really shouldn’t be, like–at some point, he’s got to get the message, right? And if he doesn’t, that’s when murder becomes an option.”

“Hey, murder is always an option.” He gives her a smile. “They have video games, right? Jasper is involved, there must be video games.”

“He is, and there are. I can totally kick your ass at Mario Kart. That’s a good use of time.”

Bellamy actually likes most of Octavia’s friends pretty well, and it’s not like he’s  _that_  much older than they are. Not really. But parties always bring out the most immature side of people, in his experience, and he’s just–drinking games do not do anything for him at this point in his life. They barely did anything for him when he was a kid. But the video games area is pretty safe. Jasper’s best friend Monty is up there, with weed, and while he’s not much of a weed guy, it’s at least pretty laid back. Everyone’s more focused on playing than interacting, and he and Clarke have a long and rich history of shit-talking during any competitive event, so it’s his favorite thing by default. She gets so into it, it’s hilarious. He’s actually enjoying himself.

So, of course, it can’t last.

“Hey, have you guys seen Clarke?”

Bellamy got the Clarke/Finn/Raven story in weird pieces, and he’s still not one-hundred-percent on what happened between them, but he does know that Finn was a dick and he should really stop trying to talk to Clarke. And probably Raven. And maybe just all people.

“Busy, leave me alone,” Clarke says, not looking away from the screen.

“Clarke, I know I–”

“Dude, seriously,” Bellamy says, mild. “We’re busy.”

Finn comes over, trying to sit next to Clarke on the couch, and Clarke tucks herself into Bellamy’s side.

“You know, if you wanted to cuddle, you shouldn’t have picked a costume that involves me in armor,” he points out. Clarke didn’t say she actually wanted him to pretend to be her boyfriend, but he figures it was implied.

Finn frowns. “Are you guys–”

“Suck it!” says Clarke, as she passes the finish line. She grins at Bellamy. “You totally got distracted worrying about my personal comfort. Rookie mistake. Anyway, yeah,” she adds to Finn. “You know Bellamy, right? Boyfriend.”

Bellamy chokes on his drink, but he doesn’t think it’s that noticeable. Finn’s staring at Clarke anyway.

“Since when?”

Clarke glances up at him, and Bellamy’s surprised to see a flush on her cheeks. “A couple weeks, but it’s been coming for a while.” She turns a huge grin toward Finn. “Well, for me. I wasn’t sure he’d go for it, but I got lucky.”

“Oh. You didn’t–I didn’t know you were seeing anyone.”

“It’s almost like I didn’t think I needed to justify why I don’t want to date you. I don’t have to have another boyfriend to not be into you, Finn.”

“But she does, so, yeah. Either play Mario Kart or shut up so we can,” Bellamy says, and Clarke settles in closer.

They play a few more rounds before Finn finally leaves, and then another before Clarke wants to go get drinks.

She pulls him outside after, into the back, and says, “Thanks for that. I was hoping he wouldn’t be a fucking asshole, but–apparently that was too much to ask for.”

“No problem,” he says. He wets his lips. “You know you told all your friends we’re dating, right? Not just him.”

“Yup.”

“You don’t seem that worried about it.”

“Nope.” She wets her lips. “It’s kind of like the bet with Octavia, I wasn’t  _planning_  it but I’m not going to let the opportunity go, so–yeah.” She smiles. “I might be okay with my friends thinking we’re dating.”

“Good to know.” He looks down. “This armor is seriously the worst choice for this. I’d kiss you but I’m afraid you’ll stab yourself or something.”

Clarke laughs and winds her arms around his neck. “I’ll risk it.”


	53. Neighbors in an apartment building with thin walls. One is watching a scary movie and screams. The other comes rushing over thinking something is wrong.

In the two years Clarke has lived next to Bellamy Blake, she’s found a lot out about him by accident. It’s why they became friends in the first place, after she and Lexa had their blow-up breakout fight and she was loudly swearing about how she had no booze, and he’d knocked on her door with a bottle of vodka.

“I assume you also know an awkward amount about my life,” he said, by way of greeting. “It’s kind of weird pretending I don’t, so–want to get drunk and complain about your ex-girlfriend? Who I never liked, for the record.”

Clarke laughed. “We haven’t even been formally introduced.”

“Yeah, but you know my name, right? You’re Clarke.”

“And you’re Bellamy and your little sister is Octavia an you’re a teacher. Yeah, okay, fine. Come on in.”

Now they’re the kind of friends who hang out and drink and heckle Netflix once every few days, and also know too much about each other because of the thin walls situation. Clarke knows Bellamy and his sister argue a lot but love each other, that he likes yelling at movies for being historically inaccurate even when he’s alone, and that he doesn’t do relationships, because she’s heard him having a lot of sex, but never with the same people.

She has also, on a couple occasions, gotten turned on listening to him hook up, which is creepy and the kind of thing she really shouldn’t do with a friend, but it’s unavoidable, so, whatever. She’s being as non-creepy about it as possible.

Still, the last thing she was ever expecting to hear from Bellamy’s apartment was an actual, honest-to-god  _scream_.

She’s out the door with an iron skillet before she’s actually thought about it, pounding on his door with some distress.

Bellamy opens the door, blinking at her. He’s in his pajamas and glasses, which is her favorite Bellamy look. 

When he sees the skillet, he frowns. “Are you making me dinner? Did I know about it?”

“You screamed! I thought someone was attacking you.”

A smile grows on his face. “So, you heard me scream and your first instinct was to grab a pan and come over to defend me? What were you going to do, exactly? If someone was actually attacking me, I couldn’t have come to the door. How were you going to get in?”

“If our doors are as shitty as our walls, I could probably kick it down.”

“That would have been badass. But I’m fine. I do appreciate that you’re willing to rush to my rescue, though. If someone does come and try to stab me, I’m glad you’ve got my back.”

She frowns. “So, what happened?”

“Nothing?”

“I heard you scream, Bellamy.”

“I didn’t  _scream_ ,” he says, crossing his arms over his chest. Clarke glares at him, and he sighs. “It’s Halloween, I’m watching a movie. I was–registering my surprise at what happened.”

Clarke finds herself grinning too, once she realizes what he’s saying. “So you got scared by a  _movie_?” she asks. “What are you watching?”

“Nothing.”

“You literally just told me you were watching a movie and that’s what scared you.”

“I never said scared, I said  _surprised_.”

“You screamed!” She grins. “Come on, I can watch with you. Protect you. You can hold my hand during scary bits. Bury your face in my neck. I’ll tell you when it’s safe to–”

“You know this is what I tell girls when I’m trying to seduce them with scary movies, right?”

“How does that even work when you’re the one screaming?”

“You’re never going to let this go, are you?”

“Not if you don’t tell me what it was. There are plenty of movies it’s totally acceptable to scream at. I’ll let it go if it was sufficiently scary.”

He mulls it over and then admits, “ _Twenty-Eight Days Later_.” 

“See, that’s totally acceptable. You’re watching it  _alone_? You’re going to have nightmares. I had nightmares for weeks after that one.”

“Octavia canceled on me, she’s got a date,” he says, sounding somewhat petulant. “We  _always_  watch scary movies together on Halloween, but this guy she’s into asked her to a party last-minute, so she asked for a rain check. And she’s crazy about him, so I wasn’t going to be, like.” He shrugs. “I can keep it together fine watching stuff like this with someone else, but–I forgot I get kind of freaked out alone.”

“And yet you still didn’t ask me. I  _offered_  and you–”

“Do you want to come watch scary movies with me, Clarke?”

“Yeah, but I’m totally going to do that yawn and put my arm around you move. Everyone knows scary movies are just an excuse for cuddling and necking.”

“So the last ten months of Netflix and chill hasn’t worked, but once I start screaming at horror movies, you’ll finally make out with me?” Bellamy asks, regarding her through his lashes. “I wish you’d told me sooner, I would have sacrificed my dignity in no time.”

“ _Finally_?” she asks, somewhat offended. “You never even asked, I just figured you weren’t interested–”

He leans down and kisses her, all too briefly. “Will you please come and protect me from the scary zombies?”

She worries her lip. “You know I don’t do one-night stands. You would have heard if I do one-night stands. You do them  _all the time_.”

“I haven’t slept with anyone in months.” He smiles at her. “I know you don’t do one-night stands. And I’m going to need to be protected from zombies for a while. I mean, the zombie apocalypse could come any day, and I don’t have cast-iron cookware, so–”

“You’re a dick,” Clarke says, and tugs him down for another kiss. He pulls her inside and shuts the door behind them, takes the skillet out of her hand puts it down on the table.

“I am a dick,” he agrees. “You know, I wouldn’t be heartbroken if we skipped the rest of the movie. I’ve already seen it.”

“Yeah,” Clarke agrees. “Me too.”

It turns out Bellamy’s sex noises are even better up close and personal.


	54. ex-sex where they can't get enough of each other

They broke up for really legitimate reasons, honestly. It was completely, 100% the right call; Bellamy was going off to college, Clarke would be in college the next year, and long-distance during college just seemed like an awful idea. They’ll be in different places, with different people, making new friends. If they tried to tie themselves down with a high-school relationship, they’d just end up resenting each other.

But when Bellamy comes back to town for his first Thanksgiving break, he still calls Clarke, because of course he calls Clarke. She was one of his best friends, and he misses her. They still talk, of course, text and chat and occasionally Skype, and she’d probably kick his ass if he didn’t call.

He really, really didn’t  _mean_  to hook up with her. He hadn’t been planning on it. It was honestly an–not an  _accident_ , but it wasn’t intentional.

“If you weren’t planning on this, why do you have condoms?” Clarke asks. They’re in her car, just like a thousand times in high school, Clarke in his lap, grinding down against him, Bellamy’s mouth on her neck.

“Why wouldn’t I have condoms? I just keep one in my wallet. Just in case.”

She grins. “And when’s the last time you used your emergency condom?” she asks.

“I don’t know, when’s the last time we hooked up?” he asks, unbuttoning her shirt enough he can slide his mouth to the swell of her breast.

He means it as a rhetorical question, but she immediately says, “August 30.” When he pulls back to look at her, she flushes. “What?”

“Nothing,” he says, and leans up to kiss her.

It keeps happening, every time he comes home freshman year. At Christmas, she blows him in a closet at her parents’ holiday party, and they can’t keep their hands off each other at Jasper’s New Year’s party. Her parents go out of town for a weekend over spring break, and they have sex the whole time because he’s pretty sure if they stopped having sex, it would be too obvious to both of them that feelings are still involved, and then that would necessitate a conversation about what that means.

He gets a job on-campus over the summer, so he’s only home for a few weeks, and it doesn’t overlap with when Clarke is home, so he doesn’t see her for the whole eight months between spring break and the next Thanksgiving. It’s like a constant ache in his side, this awareness of where Clarke should be in his life, how he’s supposed to have her and doesn’t. And she’s in college too now, and every day, he’s expecting to hear she’s got a new boyfriend or girlfriend, found someone  _real_ to date. But she never mentions anyone.

He calls her as soon as he gets home, of course. “I’m bored, are you back yet?”

“I’ve been bored for _hours_ ,” she says. “Get with the program, Blake. You want to come hang out?”

He’s oddly nervous when he gets to her door; he’s been here a thousand times before, but he somehow doesn’t know what’s going to happen now. Maybe she just wants to hang out. And that–that’s fine. She’s still his best friend. He still loves hanging out with her.

But he’s coming to realize he might not be getting over her.

“Hey!” she says, throwing herself in his arms as soon as she opens the door. He hugs back, buries his face in her hair.

“Hi. How’s college?”

“Good. You know we talk, like, every day, right? I don’t have any new updates for you?”

“Jesus, I’m trying to be polite. Don’t be an asshole, Griffin.”

“Sorry, too late. I’m always an asshole.” She pulls back from the hug, grinning. “It’s really good to see you.”

“You too.” He almost asks after her parents, but it sounds too obvious, like he’s fishing for something. “I’m glad college is going well.”

“Basically, yeah. You want to watch TV? I know you’re behind on Brooklyn 99.”

“I am behind on Brooklyn 99.”

They watch three episodes on her old couch before Clarke finally says, “So, this is really awkward, right?”

“What is?”

She looks at him. “The whole  _are we gonna have sex_  question.”

“Well,  _now_ it is,” he teases. But she just keeps looking at him, and he swallows. “I mean, uh–we can if you want to. It’s–yeah, it’s awkward, but just because we spent all last year not talking about it.”

Clarke nods. “So, we should talk about it. You’re single, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay. I am too.” She shifts closer to him. “And I’m, you know. I don’t get laid much, so–”

He catches her lips with his, turns her face for a kiss that ends up more sweet than messy. He recovers as quickly as he can, makes it hot and demanding, pressing her against the couch, keeping it as physical as possible. It’s not a relationship. It can’t be a relationship. It’s just sex, when they’re both around and single.

Clarke moans against his mouth, tangles her fingers in his hair to pull him closer, and he’s got her shirt off before he remembers to ask, “Your parents aren’t home, right?”

She laughs and unhooks her bra. “Yeah, they’re gone until tonight.”

“Thank god,” he says, and pushes her onto her back so he can kiss down her chest.

It gets, if not easier, at least more purposeful after that. They don’t manage to see each other every break–she goes to visit her grandparents one Christmas, he ends up visiting Miller over spring break–but when they do, they hang out like they used to before they dated, and they fuck whenever they get the chance.

It’s not until spring break his senior year that he realizes no matter how many people Clarke dates, she’s always single by the time she sees him.

“Fuck, Bell,” she pants. They’re in the bathroom of a bar, which is pretty much his least favorite place to have sex, but she came in wearing a tiny shirt and a tank top and told him after two drinks that she wasn’t wearing underwear, and he’s only fucking human.

“Been a while, huh?” he asks, rubbing his fingers against her clit.

“Need you,” she says. “ _Please_. Inside me.”

“How long?” he asks, ghosting his fingers over her entrance, making her groan.

“Not since Christmas,” she says. “Not since–there’s no one like you, Bell. Please, please, I–”

He swallows hard, fumbles with his jeans and boxers, gets them shoved down just enough to get his dick out and roll a condom on.

“No one like me, huh?”

“You know there isn’t,” she says, and he turns her head for a sloppy kiss as he slides inside her. She’s so fucking wet, so perfect, and he knows exactly what she means, but it’s still–he didn’t know she thought so too.

“I’m–” He starts, once she’s come twice and he’s finally let himself go too, and he’s panting against her shoulder, unwilling to let go. “I’m graduating in a couple months.”

“I know.”

He kisses her neck. “I really fucking miss you.”

“Me too.”

“I’ve been, uh–I’ve been looking for jobs. In Palo Alto. It’s pretty expensive to live there, but–”

“I’ll have an apartment next year. I could use help with rent.” She laughs, twisting around in his arms for a kiss. “We’re the worst at breaking up. Like, ever.”

“Yeah,” he agrees. “We tried, right?”

“We tried.” She smiles. “It didn’t work out. Stupid idea. I don’t think we should do it again.”

“Yeah. Me neither.”

So they don’t.


	55. 'that was supposed to be on anon'

Clarke is–well, Clarke is a lot of things when she discovers that Bellamy Blake both found out about her tumblr and has gotten his own tumblr so he can follow her.

She tells Octavia that she’s annoyed, and that’s true. She enjoyed making occasional cryptic “fuck this hot asshole I know” posts, and she can’t really make those if Bellamy is reading what she writes, because he’ll assume they’re about him, even if there is absolutely no evidence in the actual posts to support that they are. And he’ll be right, so it’s obviously totally out of the question. And it’s also annoying because, seriously, does Bellamy  _have_  to read her tumblr? Even stuff that isn’t about him, he  _knows about_  now, and she knows stuff about him too, and it’s annoying to have the knowledge that he likes all her fanart and a lot of her memes and some of her more obscure reblogs. She doesn’t need to know that Bellamy Blake likes  _Code Name: Verity_  enough to reblog her posts about it. That is fucking unnecessary.

She tells Raven she’s kind of self-conscious, which is also true, and not even entirely a bad thing. Clarke knows that even though she’s female and bisexual, she has a lot more privilege than she doesn’t, and she does her best to be a good advocate for her own rights and a good ally for everyone else, but Bellamy is always the person who’s been most willing to call her out on her shit, rightly or wrongly, and running everything she does through the “is Bellamy going to send me an ask about how I fucked this up?” filter is exhausting, but--it’s also really important. 

But there’s the other kind of self-consciousness too, the part that comes through when she wants to throw up a personal post about how she’s been fighting with her mother or when she wants to complain about something that she  _knows_  isn’t that important, and she has to put those through the filter too, has to think about whether or not she wants Bellamy to have that knowledge of her. And there’s no reciprocity on that front, because Bellamy just follows her, Octavia, Raven, Monty, Jasper, a bunch of weird academic blogs, and the Denny’s tumblr, and all he ever does is reblog stuff one of them has already posted. Bellamy’s tumblr involves zero content actually generated by Bellamy, and still manages to be completely and totally  _him_. 

The most overwhelming feeling, though, is the one she doesn’t tell anyone about, and that’s actual fucking  _giddiness_ , this weird pride and joy that Bellamy follows her, and reblogs more stuff from  _her_  than he does from anyone else, and sometimes will say, “Yeah, I saw this great article online,” and it’s something  _she posted_.

And she will take that feeling to her grave with her. No one ever has to know.

He’s been on tumblr for six months when she has the worst fight she’s ever had with her mother, about her father’s death and the shitty way her mother handled it and a thousand other big and small things, and she doesn’t know how to call anyone after, because she’s just so  _tired_  much, so she just throws up a read more and pours out everything and ignores all her calls for an hour to cuddle with her cat, who for once recognizes and agrees that Clarke needs comfort, instead of trying to do anything more involved with her feelings.

When she finally looks at her phone, she has voicemails from Octavia, Raven, and Wells, plus texts from them, Monty, and Bellamy.

Her tumblr is full of support too, her post full of people who have hacked their reply function to leave her virtual hugs, her inbox stuffed with people telling her how they’re rooting for her and they’re sorry she’s having a tough time.

And then, right in the middle of a block of anon comments offering love, she sees it.

  


 

Clarke sort of stares for a minute because--she gets nice anonymous messages all the time, sometimes  _really_  nice anonymous messages, and now she is having to reconsider literally every single thing she has ever gotten for the past  _few years_  through her new “Bellamy sends me nice anonymous asks” filter, and her whole brain is kind of overloading, because he only  _got_  a tumblr six months ago, but apparently he’s been reading for years, so maybe he  _didn’t_  get the subtext of all those “I’M GOING TO RANT ABOUT MY BFF’S ASSHOLE BROTHER FOR A SECOND” posts she’s made was “I would really like to make out with my BFF’s asshole brother.” And maybe he actually sent her some “man, that guy sounds like a dick” anon comments, because, god, he fucking  _would_ , wouldn’t he? Bellamy doesn’t know how to apologize or how to have normal human conversations.

She checks her phone and finds the text from him, which just says,  _Hey, saw your post, I assume O’s got you covered but lmk if you need a ride anywhere or something_ , because he’s her friend who has a car and also doesn’t know how to offer non-practical comfort.

Three anonymous (well, two anon and one anon-fail) messages about how great she is and how he loves her (!!!), and one actual real text from him offering the most awkward support of all time.

_Can you come over?_  she texts back, before she can rethink it.

He takes a while to respond, but it’s been almost an hour since he sent the text, so he might not even be around anymore. Maybe he got distracted by video games or Octavia or getting into a fight on Reddit. But the question he finally asks is,  _Do you want me to bring anything? Booze? Ice cream? Octavia?_

She considers and then says,  _Ice cream_ , because if she says she just wants him, he might get suspicious or suspect a trap, and it would be a shame to scare him off before she can confront him about the asks and make him snuggle with her until she feels better. For a start.

_Sure, I’ll see you in like fifteen minutes_.

She texts everyone else back while she’s waiting for him, and when Octavia says,  _Bell said he was gonna get you supplies, do you need me to run interference,_  she can honestly respond,  _No, we’ll be fine._

He gives her a nervous smile when she opens the door. His outfit looks like he threw it on, which makes some amount of sense--it’s nine o’clock on a Wednesday, and he tends to be one of those people who gets home from work and immediately changes into pajamas, so he probably got dressed again, just to come see her.

He likes her and respects her and worries about her, and she really needs to figure out what she’s going to say to him.

“I got you that Ben and Jerry’s one that’s just like five kinds of cookie dough,” he says, holding up the carton. “I remembered you like cookie dough.”

“I do,” she says. “Thanks for bringing it.”

“Yeah, no problem. Did you, uh--” He worries his lip. “I wasn’t really sure what else you wanted. I can just take off, or--”

She has to laugh. “Bellamy.”

“Yeah?”

“Did you know you only hit anon on two of your three surprisingly sweet tumblr messages?”

He turns  _so fucking red_. It’s honestly the best thing she has ever seen in her entire life. He’s blushing so hard he’s going to melt the ice cream if he’s not careful.

“Uh, what?”

“I got a very nice three-part message, and the second part was from you. So either something really weird happened, or all three parts were from you and you just didn’t want me to know that, for some reason.”

“Um.”

“You know you can just say nice things directly to me, right? You don’t have to put them on anon first. I won’t be offended if you actually just tell me you like me. I like you too.”

“I figured it would be, uh. Nice to know you had all kinds of fans.”

“It would be nicer to know  _you’re_  a fan,” she teases. “If you’d just been anonymous, I wouldn’t have known I had your number.”

He rubs the back of his neck. “So, uh, you’re--not mad?” he offers.

“I’m kind of mad. How long have you known about my tumblr? I thought you just found out like six months ago!”

“No, uh--O leaves hers up all the time when she’s hanging out at my place and I recognized your art, so, yeah. Basically for as long as O’s been following you.”

“And you decided to just tell me six months ago because?”

“I felt like kind of a dick not telling you. I mentioned it to Miller and he said it was creepy and I hadn’t really--as soon as he said it I figured out it was, but I didn’t want you to kick my ass, so--fuck. This is going really badly for me, isn’t it?”

She has to laugh. “So, do you send me anon comments a lot?”

“No! Just when you, uh, reblog  _tell me what you think of me on anon_ or whatever.”

“And what do you think of me? On anon?”

He wets his lips. “Usually I’m one of the  _you’re cute and I’d love to go on a date with you IRL_ anons. But you get a lot of those.”

She takes the ice cream out of his hand and puts it down on the table next to her so she can wind her arms around his neck. “Okay, you definitely should have been telling me some things non-anon.”

“Oh,” he breathes. “Well, um. I think you’re talented and beautiful and amazing, and I want to punch your mom in the face.”

“I think you’re kind of a fucking dumbass,” Clarke says, and leans up to press her mouth against his.

The ice cream does, tragically, melt. But it’s not a big deal. She’s feeling a lot better.


	56. "if you go when the snowflakes storm / when the rivers freeze and summer ends / please see for me she has a coat so warm / to keep her from the howling winds"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Non-AU, spoilers for season two.

The second time Clarke leaves, they both agree it’s the right decision. There’s some yelling, some throwing shit, and a few days of not talking to each other, but in the end, he has to admit that it’s for the best.

“Just for a few months,” she says. “I’ll be back before you know it.”

“Bullshit,” he says, and she cracks a smile.

“You’re going to be busy here. I’m the one who’s going to be in the north for months.”

His jaw works. “I can go–”

“I met them,” she says, looking away, like she always does, when she references the time she was gone before. “They trust me.” Her smile is wry. “We don’t have to do this again, do we?”

“No,” he says. “You’re right. I know you’re right. Just–be careful. And come home.”

She presses her lips against his cheek, the standard goodbye, and he  _hates_  that they have a standard goodbye. “I’ll be back,” she says, and he likes the sound of it so much better than  _may we meet again_.

It is easier than last time, at least. He knows where she is. They have frequent trade with the Ice Nation–that’s why she went to make the treaty in the first place, to strengthen an already firm alliance–and she sends him  _letters_. The novelty of it is almost funny; he’s never corresponded with anyone in his life. He never needed to.

But she writes every week, and he writes back. Of course he writes back. He sends messages with Echo, ignores the way she smirks whenever she brings something back from Clarke. It’s commonly assumed that he and Clarke are–well, he’s not actually sure exactly what the assumption is, if they’re actually thought to be married, or partnered, or just spoken for, but he doesn’t care much.

They’re not right, but he can’t say they’re wrong, either. Not really.

Lincoln and Octavia head north right at the end of fall, Lincoln having assumed a role as some sort of ambassador, almost, helping with all the different Grounder tribes, and Bellamy sends a warm coat for Clarke with them. She left before they discovered he’s the best tailor among the Ark survivors, and he feels strangely proud, sending her something he made with his own hands. He hasn’t gotten to create much, on the ground. 

“Bullshit,” says Raven, when he mentions that to her. “You and Clarke made all of this.”

“Yeah, but–something for her.”

“When’s the last time you made something that  _wasn’t_ for her?” she asks, and he doesn’t have an answer for that.

Echo comes back a week later, with a letter from Clarke thanking him for the coat, and saying she, Lincoln, and Octavia will all be staying through the winter. He goes to stand on the wall and glower after he reads it, because–she ends every letter with  _I miss you_ , he knows she’ll come back when she can. He just hates that she can’t yet.

“I shouldn’t tell you this,” says Echo, coming up next to him. “But they want to keep her.”

“Keep her?” he repeats. It comes out as a snarl, and Echo just raises one eyebrow at him. “What do you mean,  _keep her_?”

“Exactly what I said. They want her to stay. You won’t attack us if one of your leaders lives with us.”

“They’re making her stay?” he growls. “Fuck this, I’m–”

“No. They’re not forcing her to do anything. They’re trying to talk her around. A nice house, a marriage, a family–they want to convince her to stay, they don’t want to make her.” She pauses, and then adds, “I was told to not carry your letters anymore. To bring hers to you, and make it seem as if you weren’t responding.”

“Fuck that,” he says.

“Your sister seems to have noticed. I think that’s why she’s staying.” 

“Why are you telling me this?”

“Because you’re my friend, and you’re a good man. Besides, it’s a stupid plan. I’ve gotten to know her pretty well, these last few months. If you stopped writing to her, she wouldn’t decide you stopped wanting her. She’d storm down here and ask you what happened herself. But it would probably be easier for everyone if you could be spared. For a short trip.”

It’s been four months, longer than Clarke was supposed to be gone, and if she’s really planning to be gone for the  _whole fucking winter_ –

“Yeah,” he says. “I could be gone for a week or two.”

In some ways, the worst part is that no one is even  _surprised_ ; if anything, Marcus and Abby seem surprised it took him this long.

“You could use a vacation,” Marcus says, clapping him on the shoulder. 

Abby just says, “Give Clarke my love.”

It’s not really the number-one thing he’s planning to do when he sees her, but he figures he can work it in. After a few other things.

He can almost see why someone might be tempted to live here, once he arrives. Sure, it’s cold as shit, even though it’s not even winter yet, and there’s snow everywhere, which–Bellamy’s people come from islands.  _Warm_ islands. He doesn’t care how far separated he is from that ancestry; he is never going to like fucking winter.

He sees her before she sees him; she’s wearing the coat he made her, and a hat that Miller sent, sitting on a bench, writing something. Probably writing him a letter, he realizes, with a lurch of warmth. There are people around her, and she’s talking to them, but she isn’t  _really_. She’s not a part of the group.

They’re never going to convince her to stay. And he knew they wouldn’t, of course; he was just so fucking tired of not seeing her.

He sits down next to her and says, “It’s fucking  _cold_.”

She jumps and then stares at him, eyes wide with worry. She’s a little thinner than when she less, a few more lines on her face, but–still Clarke.

“Is everything okay? What happened? What are you–”

“Everything’s fine,” he says. He bites his lip, reaches down to take her hand. “I just missed you, honestly.”

She slides closer, pressing all up against his side, resting her head on his shoulder. “I missed you too.” There’s a pause, and then she says, low, “I think they were trying to convince me to get married. They thought if I stayed the winter, that would do it.”

“I can see why. It’s so fucking cold, you’d need someone. Just for warmth.”

She smiles and presses her lips against his shoulder. “It’s not that bad.”

“It’s really that bad.” He tugs her in. “You should probably come back with me. I don’t want you getting married just so you won’t freeze to death.”

“We still need the alliance,” she says. “But–they’ll probably give up on the marriage part now that you’re here. If they’re smart.”

“They better.”

She can’t come home with him, but the very public kiss goodbye she gives him must convince them that it’s pointless, to try to get her to stay. He’s only been home for a week when she pushes the door of his cabin open and climbs into bed with him.

“It’s pretty cold here too,” she says, pressing her nose against his shoulder.

“That’s because you’re letting the warmth out,” he says, pulling her close. “Your nose is like fucking  _ice_.” He kisses her hair. “Welcome home.”

“Next time I’m bringing you with me.”

“Yeah,” he agrees. That’s definitely the right decision.


	57. "She blows outta nowhere, roman candle of the wild Laughing away through my feeble disguise No other version of me I would rather be tonight. And, Lord, she found me just in time"

“Well, I hear  _you_  fucked up.”

Bellamy glares at his hands, which are pretty torn up. He expected someone, but not so soon. And he didn’t let himself dare to think it would be  _her_.

“When did you get back into town?”

“Octavia called me yesterday, said that you were going to have a meltdown and she didn’t want to deal with you, so I should come home for the weekend.”

“It’s not a meltdown.”

“You’re bleeding.” She’s smiling, amusement tugging at the corner of her mouth, like she thinks it’s cute that he punched a wall.

It’s probably why Octavia sent Clarke, all things considered. Clarke knows how seriously to take his moods, which is--well, if he knew that himself, he’d probably be better off.

It’s been hard, since she went to college. Not just because he misses her, generally, and he has trouble with people leaving, but because she’s always been best at mediating between him and Octavia. Which, in retrospect, mostly just means telling him he’s being an idiot and leaving Octavia to cool off, but it works better than anything anyone else does.

“Not  _a lot_.”

“Yeah, this is definitely non-meltdown bleeding,” she says. “Let me see.”

He gives her his hand, and she examines it carefully, all clinical interest, but it still makes his stupid heart pick up.

He’s twenty-three. He  _knows_ it’s pathetic to have a thing for his baby sister’s nineteen-year-old best friend. But just because he knows it doesn’t mean he can  _stop_. At some point, Clarke became as important to him as she is to Octavia, and he’s been missing her all year since she went to college.

And now Octavia’s going too.

“I bet you showed that wall,” Clarke says. If she can feel his pulse racing, she’s nice enough not to mention it.

“Yeah, it’s gonna regret ever messing with me.”

She rolls her eyes, but she’s smiling too, laughing a little. “You’re ridiculous, you know that? You’ve been working for five years to make sure Octavia can go to college. And now she is. This is fucking  _awesome_ , Bellamy. And it’s on you guys. You told her if she did the work, you’d make it happen, and you  _can_. She’s going to a great school and she’s going to be so happy.”

“None of this is news,” he says, and lets himself lean his head on her shoulder. “I’m happy.”

“I know,” she says, and that’s why he misses her. Because he really believes it. She rests her head against his. “You still have stuff to do. You’ve still got--purpose. You need to put her through four years of college. But you could maybe start thinking about doing stuff for yourself too.”

“I do stuff for myself.”

“Random anonymous hookups and getting into dumb fights on the internet to make yourself feel better than other people,” she says, and he can’t see her rolling her eyes, but he knows she is. “I was thinking something  _real_.”

“Don’t tell me you came back for the weekend just to be my life coach.”

“I’m assuming you’ll also buy me booze.”

He rests his face against her shoulder. “God, why do I even miss you? You’re back for five minutes and I remember what a fucking brat you are.”

“Mmm,” she agrees. “Have you considered  _you_  don’t have to stay?”

“Stay where?”

“Here.”

“I think it’s sadder to follow my baby sister across the country than it is to be sad she’s leaving. Besides, cost of living in New York is unreal.”

She’s quiet for long enough that he actually sits up. He’s not used to Clarke like this, looking unsure, even a little worried. She always acts like she has all the answers; it’s why he doesn’t mind admitting he doesn’t, when she’s around.

“What?” he asks.

“You do miss me, right?”

“Jesus, of course. I was joking. I’m so fucking glad you came. I was afraid O was going to try to send Jasper and Monty.”

“You raised her better than that.”

“Still. I didn’t expect you to be able to come down.”

“It’s only a few hours and I have a car,” says Clarke, with a shrug that isn’t nearly as easy as she’s trying to make it look. “It’s honestly harder for me to not come down every weekend.”

“Not making friends at school?”

“Not like you guys.”

“I get that,” he says. He flexes his hand, feels weirdly better at the sting of it. He needs to work on appropriate ways to channel his feelings. “You should come back more.”

She looks out at the lights of the city, and then she nods, decisive. It makes him smile; Clarke Griffin, visibly making up her mind. He remembers her doing it when they were kids, too. “Or you could come to me,” she says.

“That sounds like more than just an invitation to crash for the weekend,” he says, keeping his voice even with an effort.

“I’ve got an apartment for the summer, and I’m living there next year. I’m living there indefinitely. I could use a roommate.”

“That’s what craigslist is for.”

“Bellamy.”

“Have you told your mom about this plan?”

“I haven’t told anyone.” She looks down at her feet, tucked under her, resting on the curb. “Octavia told me she wanted to leave town and she was worried you’d be--she was worried about leaving you alone, but she needs to do her own thing.”

“So you’re just going to take me? What, you’re worried I’ll hurt myself alone?”

It comes out harsher than he means. It’s just--he doesn’t need charity. He doesn’t need to be traded between Clarke and Octavia so he won’t be alone.

But part of him still just wants to say  _yes_  and not overthink it. Living with  _Clarke_. It’s like a dream come true, only less pornographic.

“No,” says Clarke. She lets out a sharp breath. “But I miss you too.  _I’m_  alone, most of the time, Bellamy. And I’d rather be with you.”

“Oh.” He glances at her. “So, you drove all the way down here to ask me to move in?”

“And to see how badly you fucked up your hand.” She shakes her head. “Seriously, who punches a wall because his sister got an amazing financial aid package and is going to go to a great college?”

“Idiots,” he says. “Those are also the people who screw up good things.”

“What good thing did you screw up?”

“This,” he says. He wets his lips. “I’m, uh. I’m gonna kiss you. Seems like a better idea to do it now before I find a job and move in with you and then I make a move and end up homeless. This way I’m--”

Clarke cups his cheek, turns his head, and presses her lips against his before he can do it. Her mouth is dry and soft, with a vague flavor of artificial fruit, and he’s surprised to realize she’s shaking a little, like she’s nervous. Like he hadn’t told her he was going to do this if she didn’t.

He almost slides his hand into her hair, but he remembers there’s blood on it, so he settles for pressing closer, sliding his mouth against hers, and then they’re making out on the curb outside Bellamy’s favorite park, where Clarke  _knew_ he’d be, because she knows him, and she apparently wants him.

“You need to work harder to screw this up,” she says, and she looks happy. “I’ve been wanting to do that since I was fourteen.”

“So you’re just expecting me to pack up my life and move in with you without a first date?” he asks, but he’s smiling too.

“I could be free next weekend for a date. It’s not that bad a drive.”

“Yeah?”

She shoves his shoulder gently. “You have to tell your sister you’re fucking happy for her first. That’s non-negotiable.”

“She knows.”

“Of course she knows. She wants to hear it anyway.” She’s still smiling. “I guess I’m here tomorrow too. Next weekend could be the second date.”

“When do you get the apartment?”

“June first.”

“So that gives us two and a half months to get into a serious enough relationship that we can move in together.”

“Basically.” She stands and brushes herself off, offers her hand. “Ready to go?” she asks.

He lets her pull him up and then twines their fingers together. “Ready.”


	58. "tell them this boy wasn't meant for lovin'/ tell them this heart doesn't stand to war"

“Nope,” says Raven.

“No way,” Wells agrees.

“Literally anyone else,” says Monty.

“You like girls, right?” Raven asks. “Try his sister. She’s just as hot, but--not Bellamy.”

“All I said was that he’s cute,” Clarke says, looking at the guy leaning against the bar and chatting with Monty’s boyfriend. Until her friends freaked out, she really  _had_  just thought he was cute, but the extreme reaction has her genuinely curious about him. “And he is cute, so I stand by it. Why is he not supposed to be cute?”

“He is not a valid romantic prospect,” Wells says, careful. “Raven tried.”

“Hey, I didn’t try. I just fucked him. But--yeah, if I’d wanted something? I couldn’t have gotten it. So just--forget about Bellamy Blake, okay, Clarke? We can find you an actual  _prospect_.”

But all Clarke really gets from the conversation is that the guy’s name is Bellamy Blake, and he’s a challenge.

*

Clarke was supposed to go to college and become  _something_. One of those things you can only be with a lot of education, a doctor or a lawyer or a professor.

Instead, her father died, she went off the rails for a year, and by the time she felt better, she’d realized she didn’t really want to go to college. So she moved to the city where her best friend was at school and just sort of slotted into his social group. She put together a different kind of life, working odd jobs, making a name for herself doing freelance graphic design, and it’s not where she planned on being at twenty-one.

But she likes it. She’s happy, she thinks. She’s getting close to it.

*

“My friends told me this wasn’t gonna happen,” Clarke says.

Bellamy tugs on his shirt. “You’re friends with Raven, right?” When she nods, he snorts. “Then she should know it’s not hard to make this happen. Just, you know, ask.”

“Thanks for being easy.”

“Any time,” he says. There’s a pause and he says, “They probably meant nothing’s going to, you know,  _happen_.”

“Sex isn’t nothing. I hate when people say that, like, oh, you’re just going to get laid. Like just getting laid is  _bad_.”

“I assume it’s because I’m so awesome, I ruin you for other people.”

“Huh. I can’t believe I didn’t notice that.”

He looks at her like he hasn’t quite figured her out yet, and Clarke puts on her most casual, mysterious face.

“Well, I guess we have to keep doing this until you do,” he says, slow enough Clarke thinks he was still making his mind up about it as he spoke. 

But he does give her his number.

*

Bellamy is tied to Clarke’s friend group by a lot of small, thin threads. His friend Miller is dating Monty. His sister is in Jasper’s French class. He slept with Raven. He and Wells used to work at the same coffee shop.

He and Clarke hook up once a week or so. It’s not stronger than any of the other threads yet, but she’s working on it.

She’s not in a hurry.

*

“You’re not in college,” Bellamy says, after they’ve been sleeping together for four months. 

“Did you only just notice?” she asks, amused.

“You’re college-aged. All your friends are in college. You’re rich, so you can afford it. Why wouldn’t you be in college?”

He’s stretched on his bed, shirtless, and it’s getting harder for Clarke to leave, but--everyone has told her not to fall for Bellamy Blake, and she’s not planning to. Not until she’s figured out how to make him fall for her first. 

She sits down on the edge of the mattress, back to him, making it clear she’s not looking for comfort. “My dad died a week before I graduated from high school. It was complicated. There was this experimental treatment that probably could have saved him, but my mom thought it was too risky, so she didn’t tell him about it, and--” She shrugs. “It just seemed so stupid, you know? He  _died_. What’s riskier than that? I was so angry at her. She told me it was for me, that he would have--it would have been so hard, watching him get better and worse and better again and that wasn’t her call. So I just left. And by the time I’d figured out how I felt about everything, I’d decided college wasn’t for me.”

“Huh.”

“You didn’t go either, right?”

“Yeah. I had Octavia to take care of. But I wish I had.”

She pauses, and then stretches out next to him on the bed, not touching. “It’s not actually too late, you know.”

“It might be.”

“Fuck that. It’s not.”

He lets out a soft huff of laughter. “What are you, my life coach?”

“Friend,” she says. “The word you’re looking for is  _friend_.”

He looks her up and down, thoughtful. “Mostly naked friend.”

She shrugs one shoulder. “Friends can be naked too.”

*

“So, what’s going on with you and Bellamy?” Raven asks.

“Nothing, right?” says Clarke, with a bright smile. “He’s not a valid romantic prospect. We just fuck.”

“Yeah, but you keep doing it.”

Clarke shrugs. “It’s not like it stops being fun.”

Raven’s frown deepens. “I hope you know what you’re doing,” she says at last, on a sigh.

“Bellamy. I’m doing Bellamy.”

*

He decides to break up with her after six months, which is basically when she expected this to happen. Whenever he realized it would be an actual  _breakup_.

“I thought we weren’t dating,” she says, keeping her voice casual. She’s not actually worried.

He runs his hand through his hair. “So did I. But Octavia asked if you were coming for Christmas and I just--assumed you were.”

“And?”

“That’s some girlfriend shit.”

“I guess.” She considers, and then gives up. “Okay, if you’re going to be a fucking idiot anyway, we may as well have this conversation. Why can’t I be your girlfriend?”

He scowls. “Didn’t we already have this conversation?”

“No. You avoid it pretty well.” She rests her chin on her hand, thoughtful. “I’ve been avoiding it too. But I pick stuff up. You think you’re bad at loving people who aren’t your sister, which is bullshit, by the way.”

“Thanks.”

“I’m serious. I’m not even talking about me. You love, like, everyone. Someone looks like they need even a little taking care of and you just--they’re yours suddenly. It’s sweet.” 

“This is actually getting worse.”

“You’re honestly a pretty good boyfriend. Not, you know, wildly affectionate, but you brought me soup when I was sick and I didn’t even ask you too, and you protect me from gross guys hitting on me at bars, so I don’t get into fights with them, and you--” She licks her lips. “I’m pretty sure if you just let yourself, you’d be awesome. You don’t have to do anything new, honestly. Just stop telling yourself to not go out with me.”

“Who says I’m telling myself that?” he asks, petulant, and Clarke just raises her eyebrows at him. “I don’t know the first thing about being someone’s boyfriend,” he says, flopping onto his back on the bed. He sounds actually distressed about it, which Clarke takes as a good sign.

“One, sleepovers.”

“Sleepovers?”

“You leaving all the time because you’re afraid you’ll like cuddling is getting old. You’re right to be worried, don’t get me wrong, you’re totally going to love cuddling, but--you should just let yourself like it.”

“This conversation is the worst thing that’s ever happened to me.”

She lies down next to him and prods his leg with her foot. “Two, don’t sleep with anyone else.”

“Yeah, I haven’t done that for like four months. I’ve been telling myself it’s just because, you know. I get laid whenever I want.”

“See, I knew you were telling yourself not to go out with me.”

“I’m going to be such a shitty boyfriend, Clarke.”

“If you were a shitty boyfriend, I would have just given up on you,” Clarke points out. She rolls into his side, wraps her arms around him, tight. He barely even tenses, just pulls her in. Her heart speeds up, and he probably notices. She’s been trying to play it cool, but--she  _wants this_. “You’ve been a pretty decent boyfriend for the last few months. Just sleepovers, fidelity, more kissing.” She pauses. “Letting me brag to all our friends about how wrong they are about you.”

He’s quiet for a minute, and then he says, resigned, “We aren’t breaking up, are we?”

Clarke presses her mouth against his jaw. “Do you want to?”

“I’m going to fuck this up.”

“That’s fine. I probably will too. But I’ll forgive you.”

He lets out a long breath. “Cool. So, uh, what are you doing for Christmas?”

*

“You aren’t just dating my brother because everyone told you you couldn’t, right?” Octavia asks, wary. “Because I really like you and I’m really happy, but  _he_  really likes you, and if you fuck him up, I’m going to have to murder you. I can’t believe you got him to date you in the first place, it better not just be to prove you could.”

“Can it be like half to prove I could?” Clarke asks, thoughtful.

“Depends. What’s the other half?”

Clarke finds a truly hideous ornament that Bellamy seems to have made sometime in elementary school. It might be Santa; it might be some kind of elf that was deformed in a nuclear apocalypse. It might be both. She’s not convinced it doesn’t have two faces.

“I love him,” she says, with a shrug.

Octavia beams. “Then, yeah. That’s fine.”

And, yeah. It is.


End file.
